


A Forgotten Name

by meiamfoever



Series: Things Lost and Found [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Agender Person, Black Hermione, Child Abuse, Deaf Harry Potter, Dursleys are assholes but we already knew that, Extreme Racism, Harry is Hari, Indian Harry Potter, Part of a series that is still being written, Regulus Black Lives, Sexual Abuse, Slytherin Harry Potter, Snape barely exists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiamfoever/pseuds/meiamfoever
Summary: There are a lot of lies Harry had been told.That his parents were worthless.That he was worthless.That the greatest thing he could ever be was a servant or a whore.That he deserves it.That magic is a figment of his imagination.That his name is something as common as Harry Potter.





	1. Gift or Burden

A letter and a baby.  
This is what her sister had given her? Even in her death she was odd, wasn’t she?  
Normal people left fancy china, money, or jewelry. But no, Petunia gets a lazy, dark skinned, whelp and a condescending note.  
How arrogant could they be? How selfish? She was struggling enough with Dudley, she didn’t have time for..what was his name?  
The letter read ‘Hari Potdar.’ Well that just wouldn’t do. Too foreign, too barbaric, too...freakish.  
Harry Potter. A normal, common name. Wouldn’t stand out like the rest of him at least. Even now she could see the thick curly hair, the dark skin, and that scar...  
The hair could be shorn and the skin bleached, but the scar she couldn’t do anything about. Her face pulled into a grimace. That’s just what they needed. A reminder of the boy’s abnormality.  
And the way he got it. Odd for even one of their kind. A murderous dark lord? And blood wards? She sneered.  
No need to cause the boy a big head. She would tell him his parents had died in a car crash. Drunk, probably. Did they work? It didn’t matter. They were freaks. She glanced at the boy wailing on the floor, Dudley bouncing on her hip. The letter still burned in her hand, and she wanted to scream. Throw something. Storm out of the house and rip up her prized marigolds.  
But she was normal, thank you very much. She wouldn’t give into bouts of rage and needless temper tantrums.  
She set Dudley up with juice and cookies, snapping at the boy when he silently pleaded for a cup as well.  
“Freaks don’t get juice.”  
His nose scrunched up and he tilted his head a little. She sighed and put a cup of water down next to him, and when he smiled back she scowled in response.  
Vernon would be back from work within the hour. She would talk to him. Figure out where they would put the boy. They had the second bedroom, but no crib. They could use a crate?

Vernon came back home in a horrendous mood. Some upstart at work had decided to complain about his “racial harassment” to his boss. It wasn’t his fault that the negro needed a firmer hand than the others.  
And now there was a negro in his own home. He’d be trouble when he grows, he just knew it. They could rid themselves of the burden now, just drop him off at an orphanage?  
But no, those freaks would be watching them, making sure they had the boy still. There was nothing to do about it, he would have to stay.  
But the work! The time and money that would go into raising this..Hari? No, Petunia had said Harry, that was it.  
They would need compensation, he decided. Something to help them raise the whelp.  
He penned a letter to this Dumbledore character. A monthly payment should do it.  
Petunia took the letter to do whatever the freaks did to exchange postage. They probably used something as stupid as synchronized mirrors to talk to each other.  
The boy was on the floor next to Dudley, playing with some blocks aimlessly. He kept shaking and glaring at them, as if they were broken. What were they supposed to do, sing?  
Dudley started to wail and made grabby hands for the blocks in the boys hands. He looked up surprised but seemed to smile before handing them over. Vernon scoffed at the boys stupidity. Too naive and gullible. Probably just like his father. Expecting free handouts in return, no doubt.  
The boy grabbed the edge of the couch and dragged himself up. Dudley glanced at him curiously before trying to copy the movements. Honestly, his son following in the steps of a negro!  
He would have to separate them. The second bedroom would do just fine for now. And until they got compensation, a crate would be just fine for the boy. Or really, the boy was rather small. He’d probably be fine with a crate in general.

The boy was sick. They should have known, their kind was probably ridden with all kinds of diseases.  
The worst part was he had gotten Dudley sick as well. A high fever, runny nose, and he refused to eat, a rarity for his little tyke. Petunia was able to get him to eat some yogurt, and luckily they were able to sneak medicine into it too.  
But the other just wouldn’t stop crying. All day and night, just crying. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t spare any medicine for him! What if Dudley needed it?  
Petunia gave him water on the hour, and at one point he had fallen asleep. He was still in the second bedroom, but they had gotten a second hand bed frame for the boy when he grew too big for the old crate they had used.  
Luckily Dumbledore had gotten back to them about compensation. Not as much as he would like, but enough to lessen the blow of the sudden financial responsibility of taking care of another child.  
But really, the boy was fine with the things Dudley had outgrown. He probably hadn’t known anything better anyway, what with his parents. Lazy layabouts, most likely.  
Dudley’s fever broke quickly enough, and was back to munching on graham crackers and juice. But still the boy wouldn’t stop! Wailing and sobbing and making a ruckus.  
He pulled himself up, grumbling along the way. What he wouldn’t do to shut the boy up!

The first time the boy had tried to demand one of Dudley’s toys, Vernon had backhanded him. He was two at the time, had been living with them for a little over a year.  
Usually he was just fine with whatever they gave him. A couple of old blocks, some broken crayons. But Dudley’s new toy from Aunt Marge, the one that lit up and sung Old Macdonald, had caught his eye.  
The eye that was now turning black. The boy stumbled, shock splashed across his face. His little nose scrunched up and he started to wail.  
Vernon snarled, grabbing the boys arm and dragging him to his bedroom. There were locks on the door for when the boy grew, and he used them now. Just in case.  
The boy collapsed on the bed and stayed there, huddled on the old mattress they had given him. Why couldn’t the boy be grateful! Sacrificing their well being and reputation taken care of this negro freak and the only thing he does is demand! His parents were the same way, he would bet, asking for everything on a silver platter.  
He turned to walk away when he heard the lock click. He ignored it, probably a figment of his imagination. But when the door started to creak he froze.  
“I sorry,” he heard. The boy had come out, unlocking the door with his freakish powers and freakish nature this freak...  
Was trying to hug him. He had come over, tears in bright green eyes and wrapped his arms around his leg muttering “I sorry,” over and over. He sneered and kicked the boy off.  
“Sorry doesn’t fix what you are, freak.” The boy was still sobbing on the ground. He shook his head. Such a pansy. Would probably be a shirt lifter when he grew.  
He kicked the boy back into his room. “Don’t try and get out again, boy. Or next time, I’m using the belt.”  
The boy kept muttering sorry into his hands, not even bothering to respond. Too stupid to. Wouldn’t expect any less of the boy.

Harry learned the “Don’t ask questions” rule early, but he was always naturally curious.  
“Aunt Petunia,” he asked at age two and a half. “Where did I get my scar?”  
There was revulsion in her eyes, mixed with not a small amount of fear.  
“A car crash,” she says. “Now don’t ask questions.”  
He shuts up then, but it does nothing to lessen the bruises when his Uncle comes home.

Dudley grew fast and he grew big. At three years old, he was wearing sizes meant for six year olds, and shoes that could be used as stock pots.  
The freak on the other hand, was scrawny. Swimming in Dudley’s old clothes, feet flopping around in the shoes he had been given.  
Dudley would be off to preschool now, and needed a new desk. Something for him to learn his letters and colors on. Something big and grand and sturdy.  
His room though, was already stock full of toys and games. There just wasn’t enough space.  
Petunia glanced in the boy’s room. Bare, with a mattress and a small pile of toy soldiers that Dudley had stomped on. There was room in there, but where to put the boy.  
She pondered it the rest of the day, until she got around to putting away the winter coats.  
The cupboard had a small light bulb and shelves lining the back wall. If they put the cot in here...  
She told the boy to grab all his stuff. He rarely talked nowadays, but he nodded, bruised arms picking up his blanket and soldiers.  
She took in the boy, in all his glory. Small, bony, dark skin stretching over a gaunt face. The scar, still a horrendous blight across his forehead, like lightning.  
And there were new scars too. One on his cheek from her own ring, some on his back from Vernon’s shoes and belt.  
Good. The freak deserved it.

Dudley first started Harry Hunting at five.  
He’d chase the boy around the backyard, the freak’s legs stumbling as he gasped for breath.  
It was good exercise for them, and practice for when Dudley took up sports like his father had. He’d be an excellent rugby player. Maybe a wrestler.  
The boy though, was weak. A good for nothing waste of space. Petunia decided she had enough of his uselessness and plopped him in front of the kitchen counter.  
“Stir this pot.”  
He took the spoon from her and started twisting it in the soup wildly. She pinched him when some of it spilled out.  
“Stir it! Like this.” She took the pot from him and guided his hand, keeping his sleeve between their skin. “Just like that. And don’t mess it up!”  
Vernon complimented the soup and slapped the boy when he said thank you.  
“It wasn’t you that made the soup now was it? Your aunt taught you everything you know, and you better be damn grateful for it.”  
The boy nodded, eyes trained on the floor. Petunia glanced down at it herself and sneered at the dust on the tiles.  
“The least he could do,” she told Vernon, “is earn his keep. I’ll give him a mop and some water, and we’ll see if he deserves dinner.”  
He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “A lovely idea, Pet. Here, boy.” He thrust a bucket of scalding water into his hand. “Use this.”  
Harry went to his cot that night, hungry, tired, and red from the heat.

Dudley’s first report card was filled with comments about his violent tendencies, while Harry’s mentioned his quiet nature.  
“It’s his cousin,” they explained. “A violent negro, and a horrible influence. We’ve tried to curb it, but...”  
When Harry starts to earn consistently better grades than Dudley, they’re furious.  
“Trying to fill a quota, are you? And what does that do to my little boy? He should be pushed aside in the face of his unnaturalness?”  
When the teachers refuse to change the grades, they convinced harry to change them.  
“A negro like you doesn’t deserve to learn, too stupid to anyway. Make sure you don’t outshine our Duddikins, you freak.”  
The report cards come back in a much more favorable nature.

 

Marge brought her dog, Ripper, to their house on Dudley’s eighth birthday.  
The dog was a smart one, playing with Dudley and snarling at Harry. It nipped at his heels and growled when Harry tried to approach it.  
They all took great delight in telling Harry to feed it. The terror in his face was only outshined by the terror when Vernon approached with the belt.  
One time Harry wasn’t quick enough. The dog clamped onto his ankle and tried to drag him. The frail seven year old fell, trying to shake the dog off of him. Ripper just but down harder.  
The Dursley’s laughed when Harry finally escaped up the tree in the backyard. Marge left Ripper to terrorize the boy the entire night, after ensuring the dog would have a blanket if he needed it. Harry’s blanket, actually. He never got it back.

Harry finds solace in the library on a cold night when Dudley chases him down an unknown street.  
It gets dark early now, and the cold reaches his bones, seeping into his terror filled mind.  
The roads are winding and confusing, and even on his shopping trips alone he hasn’t gone this far. He needs to find a map. He’s memorized his address, despite his relatives protests.  
“If you get lost, it’s your own fault,” they say, as they drill the address into Dudley’s memory. “We wouldn’t want you back anyway.”  
But remembering a street name and house number is easy, especially when it’s the only one you’ve ever known.  
Number 4, Privet Drive.  
So all he needs now is a map, and someone to tell him where he is. Preferably somewhere warm. And maybe water?  
The library sits on the street corner like a lighthouse guiding lost souls to shore. He hesitates before going in-Dudley was always talking about know-it-alls and how books were for sissies.  
“Not like they could be any worse than you,” he snipes over his roast. “You’re too stupid to read, negro.”  
Which is a lie, but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is the heater, and the light, and-is that a water fountain?  
The door slides open, and everyone seems to pause and look at him. He freezes in the doorway.  
He fingers the edge of his shirt, really Dudley’s, as it couldn’t fit anyone else. It’s frayed and stretched, and he thinks there is a stain from the gravy he made last night, but it’s warmer than anything else he owns.  
Everything goes back to normal before he looks up. People are reading, some whispering in the corner. People at the counter smile and suggest books for customers to check out.  
Harry kept his back to the wall, slipping closer to the water fountain. After the initial look, everyone seems to ignore him, so no one watches his journey.  
Harry is still small, looking six when he’s nine, and he can barely reach the fountain. Every muscle of his tenses when he turns to face the fountain, so he only allows himself a small sip before whipping around to face the room.  
There’s someone staring at him now. One of the people at the desk, with slight hands and thick shoulders. Harry glances around him. A map, he needs a map. And just there is the geography section. Surely they’d have an atlas?  
He glances back to the person, who is now helping a mother and child with a Berenstain Bears book. Harry dashes to the aisle before they turn around.  
Everything here is well lit, but the shelves tower over him. The number system is like the one at school, but he never understood that one either, and the librarian had always shot him dirty looks when he walked in.  
He didn’t go to the library at school anymore.  
His breath speeds up and he feels a little dizzy when he sees it.  
At the top of the shelf is a little paper reading “Atlas.” He can’t believe his luck, until he reaches up to grab one.  
Too high. Of course.  
“Need a little help there?”  
Harry jumps, and there is the person from before. He notices now the short hair and soft yellow dress. And skin that matches his.  
And now he’s confused. Because the person looks like a boy, but the dress? And the white nail polish? Before he can ask, they talk again.  
“Hello, I’m Aditya. What’s your name?”  
“Harry.” He squints at them. “Why are you wearing a dress?”  
They shrug. “Because I like it.”  
“My uncle says boys aren’t allowed to wear dresses.”  
“Your uncle doesn’t sound like a very nice person.”  
Harry considers that before shaking his head. “He isn’t.”  
They nod, before gesturing towards the shelf. “Would you like some help?”  
Harry almost says no. How are they supposed to trust this person? No matter how pretty their dress, or how soft their voice, it doesn’t mean they’re nice.  
But he remembers the cold outside, and the light from the moon barely shining through the clouds. He can take the risk.  
“Please.”  
They smile before reaching up. “Which one would you like?”  
The one in Petunia’s car, that showed all the roads and highways before Dudley had taken scissors and glue to it.  
“A road map? Of here?”  
Their fingers stall before reaching up to a thick book in the corner. “Are you lost?”  
He nods before he puts all his energy into carrying the book. It’s giant, and his skinny arms can barely wrap around it. Aditya takes it back from him with a smile.  
“Here, I’ll help you get it to the table, is that alright?”  
He goes through the same struggle before nodding.  
There are tables spotted everywhere throughout the library, and finding one is no problem. It’s surrounded by chairs that swamp Harry, and he sinks down into the plush warmth with a sigh.  
Aditya smiles at him before opening up the book. “Okay, where are you trying to go?”  
“My relatives house. Number 4, Privet Drive.”  
“In Surrey?”  
He nods, picking at the edge of his sleeve. The book is just like how Aunt Petunia’s was, with orange highways and a beige background. It reminds him of spilled spaghetti.  
Aditya hums while they scan the pages. Harry starts tapping his foot to the beat before they stop and point to a specific point.  
“Here it is. It’s,” they frown a bit, “a couple blocks away. Kid, how’d you end up over here?”  
Harry’s hands still and his foot stalls. “I got lost.”  
“But what were you doing? Were you at the park?”  
He shook his head. “I’m not allowed at the park.”  
“Not allowed? Kid-”  
“Uncle Vernon said so. Only Dudley is.”  
“Dudley?”  
“My cousin. He’s big, but he’s slow.”  
Aditya rubs a hand over their face. “Okay. Well, how about this. After my shift, I can drive you back home. But you have to stay here for another hour or so while I end my shift. I can get you something to eat if you’d like?”  
Even as his stomach grumbles, Harry shakes his head. “I’m not allowed to take food from strangers.”  
They chuckle. “Did your relatives teach you that?” Why did they look confused?  
“No, my teacher, Mrs. Krait. She likes to swim, you know. She has ribbons on her wall from when she was on a team.”  
“She sounds nice, Harry. But hey, we know each other’s names, are we really strangers?”  
Harry glared at them. “That only works on little kids.”  
They bite their lip, trying to hide their smile. “Well then, how old are you?”  
“I’m turning ten in July.”  
“Ten?” The librarian shelving books behind them turned to glare at Aditya. “Sorry, Mrs. Stamper.”  
Harry huffed at the table. “I’m not that small.”  
They ran a hand through their hair. “You sorta are kid. But here, I’ll give you a granola bar, still wrapped, no tampering, okay? And you can sit next to people so you know I won’t do anything, got it?”  
Harry thought it over. “And when you drive me back home?”  
“I’ll let you hold my phone, so you can call 999 if you need to.”  
Harry nodded. “Deal.”  
Aditya grinned and passed him a granola bar from their pocket. “Perfect. And here, we’ll set you up in the kid’s section, okay? There’s a book I think you might like.”  
Soon enough, Harry was set up with The Hobbit and a beanbag chair while Aditya finished their shift at the counter.  
That bean bag became Harry’s as the years went by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So this is only my second work on ao3, but it is my first Harry Potter one. I have the first three chapters written, and I will be doing this story for Camp NaNoWriMo so you should expect at least weekly updates, if not ones that are more frequent. 
> 
> Also! If anyone knows how to format the text so it's not all clumped together, please message me! For some reason I can't figure it out. 
> 
> Ciao for now!  
> CL


	2. Ability Lost, Skills Gained

At the library, Harry is taught many things.

  
Some of them he teaches himself, by rummaging through stacks of books and doing research on one of the slow computers in the library. Things like how big the earth is, and what happens when you combine baking soda and vinegar, and how to treat a concussion.

(He uses that last one a lot.)

Other things Aditya teaches him, as well as the other librarians.

Things such as negro isn’t even a proper term for what Harry is. Harry, he learns, is Indian. Negro is a word (and not a nice one) for people of African descent.  
And that Harry is not stupid, actually enjoys reading and learning. So he is recommended book after book after book and swallows them into his soul where they keep him company.

There are other things he learns too. Like how a lack of gender doesn’t make a lesser person. And that carrying a weapon to defend doesn’t mean you’re willing to hurt people. And that cookies taste good over a glass of milk and a novel. And that tea is meant to be served with a generous helping of sugar. And that a dress will look amazing no matter who it’s on.

And it’s odd. In the Dursley’s house, he is taught things through angry fists and the crack of leather and biting words. He learns to do as he is told, never ask questions, never speak up.

Here it’s the opposite. He is taught through laughter and warmth and the rustling of pages. He is taught to enjoy himself, to always have a question on the tip of his tongue, to voice his opinion.

Like he balances two lives. One, the boy, in which he is a slave, ridiculed and hurt and oh so bruised. And Harry, in which he is a bright little boy with his nose buried in a book and a question in his gaze.

But the sad reality is, it can’t really be called balancing when one overshadows the other.

No matter how long he stays at the library, he ends up going back to his cupboard bruised and bloody and broken. Scared and alone and tired. He dreams of running away, dashing across town to Aditya’s house. But Aditya takes care of their mother and doesn’t have time for a freak like him.

He remembers when he used to dream of having a family, one that had been forced to leave him to save him from the monsters. They would come back and pull him into their arms and swing him around and say “Welcome home.”

That was before he found a family in the library. In the librarians and the books and the regulars who would come and sit with him some days.  
Before he found a family that wasn’t really a family, and could’t really take him away.

So now he plots. He needs a way out, a way to survive, no matter how long it takes.

He’s had a sip of freedom and now he wants to drown in it.

The obvious long term choice is to bide his time. Another eight years until he is of age and then he can leave, move out, escape. He just needs a plan.

He asks the head librarian if he can reshelve books for a couple of pounds an hour. Nothing drastic, just some pocket money. I’m hoping to get my parent’s graves flowers, and I think they’d like the lavender at the shop rather than the odd dandelion I pick up.

It doesn’t matter that he’s never seen his parents graves, barely knows their names. He promises that in the future he will.

He studies everything and everywhere. He doesn’t apply it in school, he would be black and blue for weeks. But he learns and knows and maybe later, when Dudley goes to Smeltings, Harry can get better grades, get his A-levels, go to a university.

And now he can do nothing else but survive.

The grooves of the tile sparkle, and the fence shines with a fresh coat of paint, and the petunias outside don’t fight weeds to grow now.

(He ignores his bright and angry sunburn)

There is lasagna on the table and the carpet is vacuumed and the fancy china is dusted.

(The dust trapped in his lungs will go away.)

And he survives. Barely.

The library is a heaven, a place where he can live and enjoy and read.

But sometimes his cupboard feels safer, where it’s only the darkness and him and a couple of spiders. There’s nothing there to hurt him. Nothing that isn’t what it seems. Nothing that is capable of holding ill will towards him.

 

Dudley’s eleventh birthday is a mess.

It starts with a phone call from Mrs. Figg.

“Bad news, Vernon. She can’t take the negro.”

Harry doesn’t turn away from the stove, or else the grease will burn him. He learned that the hard way. But he does listen the best he can. It’s hard over the pain in his stomach.

“Your friend?”

“On vacation. Marge?”

“She hates him. We can’t just leave him here!”

Dudley, when he sees the direction the conversation is taking, starts to wail. “I don’t want him to ruin my birthday!”

“We won’t let him, my little Duddikins. We just have to take him to the zoo with us, and then I can get you four more presents, okay?”

“That’ll make, make...”

“Forty-one, sweetheart.”

Dudley’s grin is almost as big as his ego. Uncle Vernon laughs and pats his son on the back. “Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his old man. Good boy, Dudley.”

Dudley sneers at Harry, his parents smiling. Harry glances at them. Sometimes they’ll protest Dudley’s violence on principle. Their own at least.

“No Dudley, don’t touch the negro, you’ll get dirty.”

But right now it’s just looks and words and there is no one to defend him.

He’s used to it, really.

And so after breakfast, in which Harry had three slices of apple and half a glass of water, they load up in the car with Dudley’s best friend Piers.

Before Harry escapes into the window seat, Uncle Vernon drags him back with a bruising grip. “No funny business, you understand me? Nothing weird, or abnormal, or freakish.”

Harry remembers the blue hair, and the roof, and a shrinking sweater, and a horrible haircut, and the pain that followed. He nods. “I understand, sir.”

Vernon nods, wipes his hand on his trousers, and gets in the car. Harry barely makes it when Dudley tries to slam the door on his hand.

He spends the rest of the car ride trying to ignore his cousin, who has decided Harry Pinching is his new favorite game. Piers and him track points for who can get Harry to wince.

The sun beats down on them, and Dudley and Piers are slathered in sunscreen and then given ice cream. The Dursley’s claim that his dark skin protects him from the sun, despite the numerous sun burns he’s gotten working in the garden, and he doesn’t think he’s ever had ice cream. But the lady at the cart finds him a lemon ice lolly when Uncle Vernon’s lactose intolerant excuse doesn’t hold up.

It melts quickly in his hand, but the stickiness doesn’t bother him as much as it usually would. This is amazing! He savors every lick, pouting when he throws the stick in the trash.

But soon enough, he gets the knickerbocker glory Dudley says is too small. He needs to come out with the Dursleys more often. Even if he doesn’t get sweet treats like this, at least it will be food.

His stomach is almost uncomfortably full now, but he’s beaming when they go into the reptile house.

He trails behind his relatives, just far enough for them to put him out of sight, out of mind.

He didn’t know snakes could come in so many colors. He sees the garden snakes often enough, a bright green that blends into the grass, but here there are oranges and greys and one that’s completely black.

The Dursleys and Piers are crowded around the biggest of them all, tan mixed with a darker brown.

He feels dizzy from all the sugar, and Dudley’s pounding on the glass makes it worse. When the group finally moves away, Harry leans against the railing to catch his breath.

The snake is rather pretty, even when sleeping. She curls around herself, her head turned away as if she’s trying to ignore everyone.

“I’m sorry about them,” he whispers to his hands. “I hope you don’t get that a lot.”

It takes him a second to notice, but the boa is shifting now, turning to face him. Her eyes are bright and stare straight at him.

Harry stutters now, the gaze of the serpent bearing into him. Maybe she’s just reacting to his voice but.“I really am-really am sorry about-about them. Do you-do you like it here?”

She slowly shakes her head from side to side. He winces for her. He knows what it feels like to want to escape. Now at least, it looks like the snake isn’t interested in attacking him, even through the glass.“You’re from Brazil? Did you like it there?”

Another shake of her head, and her tail points to sign almost too small to catch. “Born in captivity. Did your parents live in Brazil?”

Before she can answer, Piers and Dudley are shouting and running. He’s pushed to the ground, his head strikes the railing and he feels like all the ice cream he ate is trying to force its way back up his throat. He swallows to keep it down and he can hear shouting and he’s just so angry and scared and-

There’s even more screaming now. People rush past him, towards the exits, but he feels as if he the moment he stands he’ll throw up everywhere. He stays down, squinting around him, trying to find the glasses that had fallen off when he hit the ground.

Something presses them into his hand, something warm and smooth. He puts his glasses on to see the boa in front of him, her head swaying side to side.

“Thanks amigo,” she says, and then she slithers away.

Harry is too shocked to do anything when a giant hand wraps around his arm, yanking him towards the exit. He can’t pull himself up to walk, and he can feel the shoes seven sizes too big slip off and get lost in the crowd.

“Get home...in for it, boy...never see the light of day...” are only some of the things he hears his uncle say. He’s sick to his stomach, and not only from the head injury.

They put up a front of course, until Piers leaves. All of a sudden there’s a hand on his throat and his back is too a wall.

“What did I tell you, boy!”

“It wasn’t me, I swear! Please Uncle Vernon, I didn’t-”

“None of your lies, freak!” His hands tighten around his throat. “I told you, didn’t I? I warned you, you stupid negro. You almost got my son killed!”

He had? Harry feels his face crumble. “I didn’t know, I don’t know how-please believe me! It was like magic, I-”

Uncle Vernon goes puce. “There is no such thing as magic!” Harry can feel the spittle on his face, and he’s suddenly whipped around. There’s a whisper of leather on cloth and he almost sobs.

“Please Uncle Vernon, I’ll be better! Please-”

It almost sings through the air and tears fall when it strikes. He knew it was the belt, but he hadn’t expected the buckle.

The metal bites into his back, and he can feel the tell-tale warmth of blood. He bites through his lip trying to keep quiet, knowing the punishment if he isn’t.

It goes by quickly enough, he supposes. His uncle’s arm gets tired quickly and he’s thrown into the cupboard with a bucket. He’ll be staying for a while then.

 

Harry is passed glasses of water throughout the week, and in one memorable moment, handed a mealy apple. Aunt Petunia drags him out of the cupboard and rinses him off with the garden hose outside. She keeps him as he’s coughing, the cold water chilling him to the bone.

“Get up! Breakfast should have been ready an hour ago, and you still have to mop the floors and weed the flower beds.”

She sounds quieter than she usually does. Not less forceful, but as if she’s on a different volume, or he’s listening through a door.

He doesn’t groan, just sits up. Any sign of protest will mean more time in his cupboard, more time being hungry...

So he does it all, is done right before noon. His relatives decide lunch in London is a splendid idea, and leave him to his own devices.

And so it is he heads down to the library. His back throbs and he has a headache that’s been going on for days, but he trudges down the street. He almost misses the car honking when it flies down the road, but it makes their no worse than he started out.

Aditya is there, luckily enough. They rush from behind the counter, abandoning a confused family of three for Harry. Harry tenses for a blow, or a hug. Either will hurt.

But Aditya stops right before him and gives him a curious look. “You alright?”

He squints at them. It’s that same funny sound, where it feels dimmed and less vibrant. And he notices that while the library is busy, he doesn’t hear a peep.

He shakes his head, trying to get rid of the feeling.

“Can I-Can I have some tea?”

They nod, earrings shaking along with them. “I’ll set you up in the break room.”

Harry studies the table, covered in watermarks and marker. He strains his ears to hear the tapping of his feet, the squeaking of his chair. He’s only able to hear the whistle of the kettle.

“Here you go,kid. Earl grey, just how you like it.”

He shoots them a strained smile before looking back down at the table. He can almost feel their frown.

“You aren’t hurt, are you? I can grab the first aid kit.”

If he goes back with bandages around his back, he won’t ever be allowed to leave.

“I’m fine, just a headache-”

He freezes, every muscle in his body going tense. His headache, the railing, his ears-

“I need to go.” The tea splashes all over the table and himself, but he’s already scrambling for the door. “I’ll be back, I just need-”

Aditya is left there alone with a broken mug and a mess.

 

Harry rushes through the aisles. After two years, he’s gotten a hang of the dewey decimal system, and knows the medical section is in the 610s. He spends enough time looking through those books anyway.

The shelves in these section are tall, but the section he needs is close to the ground. He kneels down on the floor and runs his fingers across the spines.  
Mental illness, strained muscles, sport injuries, concussions.

He pulls the book out, bound in green with a cheesy picture of a skull on the front. The pages are crisp and slippery as he flips through them. He pauses on one of the last chapters reading “Effects.”

A concussion may cause conductive hearing loss, especially when untreated. Hearing can fade all at once, or over an extended period of time. Depending on the severity of the trauma, it could be reversible.

Of course it can. But the Dursley’s won’t pay for it, even if it is reversible.

Is it done fading? Will it disappear completely? Will it ever come back?

Tears fall onto glossy pages and it takes him a second to recognize them as his own.

This, this is too much. He could handle the pain and the beatings and the starving, but to not hear? Of course they would ruin this for Harry. Of course they’d take away what he thought was permanent.

Behind him he hears the whispers of Aditya. He turns to find them right behind him, looking as if he’s shouting.

They glance down toward the page that’s still open, with a diagram of the ear canal in bright color. He sees their lips form the word oh, sees them kneel down and place their arms around him.

He can feel their chest rise and fall, but he can’t hear their breathing. He sees the pages of the book scrunch up, but he can’t hear that either. He closes his eyes and it’s like he’s cut off from the world.

After a while Aditya stands up, pulling Harry with them. They drag them to a new section, with what looks like children’s books mixed with thick dictionaries. Aditya pulls one of each type, showing the smaller one to Harry.

British Sign Language for Dummies.

He glances up at them, eyes narrowed. Aditya huffs and pulls out a piece of paper and pen.

Just because it says it’s for dummies doesn’t mean your dumb.

Harry keeps glaring at them.

What? I figured no matter how much hearing you lost, this will make your life easier. Especially if you can’t get hearing aids. And look, we’ll learn it together.

Harry finally lets a tired smile grace his lips, and he’s almost tempted to hug them again. But his back still throbs and he can still barely handle the touch of a pillow.

They both learn the alphabet quickly, hands stumbling over themselves trying to finger spell.

When Aditya gets tired of fingerspelling their names every time, they skip to the section about sign names.

It says that people who are hearing shouldn’t assign sign names, Aditya writes.

Harry shakes his head. “I want you to. And I don’t think anyone else who is deaf or hard of hearing like me is going to be angry at my best friend for giving me a sign name.”

Aditya grins, but the edges are softer than normal and their eyes shine. They wipe at them with the back of their hand and Harry kindly looks away.

And so they name each other, Aditya first. Harry considers the sign for earring combined with the letter a, but he decides to veto for what he thinks is a better choice.

“It’s an a,” he says, “Held close to the body, like safe.”

Aditya just smiles the same smile they did earlier.

And then it’s Harry’s turn. Aditya struggles with a word to describe Harry in his entirety. At one point, Harry suggests an h with the sign for lightning, like his scar. Aditya shakes their head.

They’re running out of paper, but they manage to fit: kid, you are so much more than that scar. You, Harry, are brilliant.

And so that becomes his name.

Over the next few weeks, they practice sign language together whenever they can. Aditya admits at one point that they spend most of their time at the library waiting for Harry, and Harry decides he needs to find a way to get hold of a pager or something. Aditya brings an old one next time one that was still on their family plan. Harry stares at it for a second before hugging them.

 

They make it through “British Sign Language for Dummies” quickly, but that’s barely an introduction for what they’re trying to learn. And Harry’s hearing fades quickly. When it stabilizes at what he thinks is going to be the end, he can’t even hear the kettle when he’s in the same room.

The Dursley’s,when he tries to explain, claim he’s just making excuses and to get his lazy self up and out to the garden. They never try to help him understand what he’s supposed to be doing, but the routine has been ingrained in his mind for years now. Everything else, like dinner requests, go right over his head.

When he tells Aditya that his family is having trouble “learning sign language,” they give him a knowing look and then buy him a book.

“A Beginner’s guide to lipreading.”

They practice, Aditya reading books out loud to Harry while he tries to puzzle out what is being said. Even books he knows well like the Hobbit don’t come easy.

  
It’s hard, definitely more challenging to learn than sign language. He has to squint to see, since his glasses are not and have never been his prescription, and when he focuses too much on people’s lips, he misses their body language, and when he misses their body language, he can’t figure out what they’re saying.

It’s even harder when he practices with Aditya’s accent, and then goes back home to the Dursleys. Everything is a jumbled mess in his head and he just wants to fall asleep.

But that’s not part of his plan. He adapts it now, but not drastically. Sure, it’ll be hard to learn with almost no hearing, but he can do it. There are always books after all.

So the plan is basically the same. Don’t get noticed, study as hard as he can, and then get the hell outta dodge.

Unseen, learn, escape.

That’s all there is to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo!  
> I've had this chapter done for a while, but the chapter I was writing ended up being twice the length of my normal one's and it took forever. But, it's done now, and I'm working on the fifth chapter now. 
> 
> And I figured out the spacing thing! It works a lot better when you're not on html, let me tell you. I have absolutely no idea why I was in that anyway. 
> 
> Leave comments! Constructive criticism, rants, I live for it all.
> 
> See ya!  
> CL


	3. Letters and a Meeting

Of course, that’s not exactly how it happens. 

Weeks later, after he learns to hold the basics of a conversation in sign language, a letter comes. 

The funny thing about this letter, is that whoever it’s addressed to, doesn’t live there.

Hari Potdar. Which is a nice name, he admits, but it’s not one he’s heard before. 

But then he looks at the address, really looks. Because there it says, “The cupboard under the stairs.”

He glances to his cupboard, back to the letter. Back to the cupboard. Back to the emerald green ink on paper that feels more like cloth than anything. 

So it’s his? 

He checks for a return address, see if this isn’t some practical joke, but the only thing there is a picture of a crest split into four with a large H in the middle. No information there then.

It can’t be the Dursley’s, he knows that. And unless someone else has been sleeping in his cupboard-the cupboard that his toes touch one wall and his head the other-with him, it’s his. 

Hari Potdar. Huh.

Probably a misspelling, maybe a joke. But it looks nice written in fancy cursive. 

He must have missed his Uncle’s yelling because Dudley pokes his head through the doorway and shouts something back to his father.

From what Harry can read, it sounds like “Sooking through our pail, dad!”

Which is probably actually “Looking through our mail, dad!” With Dudley’s head tilted and four chins flopping around, it’s hard to tell sometimes. 

Dudley turns back to the table, and Harry rushes to the kitchen, but not before pushing the letter that is tentatively his for the time being under his cupboard door. 

The bacon is close to burning, so he rushes to the stove to place it on his Uncle’s plate. Dudley looks like he’s demanding more, so he puts more in the pan.

He feels something hit the back of his head and turns to see his aunt behind him. 

“Dudley asked for a kipper, freak.”

That’s the good thing about Aunt Petunia, at least she’s easy to read.

He pulls out another pan, greases it, and plops the kipper in. Some of the grease spits out onto his skin, but he ignores it. The bacon in the other pan is starting to sizzle so he flips that before returning back to the quickly browning kipper. 

Breakfast continues in this fashion, just like it has for the past couple years. Harry is given a piece of burnt toast that had been his Aunt’s attempt at cooking, and a long list of chores to do. Just like everyday. 

At the end of the day, he’s too tired to open the letter. Tomorrow, the Dursley’s are going to the movies with Piers. He can sneak out to the library then and open it with Aditya. Maybe they can help figure out what it is. 

 

It’s warm outside, uncomfortable, especially in the long sleeve shirts the Dursley’s insist on him wearing. 

“No use in broadcasting your abnormality, negro.”

But the air conditioner in the library roars, and is a welcome relief from the heat outside. His hand is wrapped around the letter, and he checks to make sure none of the ink has smeared. 

Aditya rushes up to him when they see him, smiling. They pause in front of him, hands waving.

Harry relaxes for the first time in days. Relying on lip reading to communicate is exhausting.

Aditya scolds him for wearing a long sleeve in this weather, and takes his arm to roll the sleeves up. Harry doesn’t mind, especially when all bruises that were there have faded.

His uncle’s accuracy has really improved. 

They finally notice the letter in his hand, using sign to ask a simple question. “What is that?”

Harry shrugs, hands it to them. “I’d been hoping you could help me figure that out.”

They smile, leads him to ‘his’ bean bag. Harry has only seen the pocket knife they carry a couple times, but he isn’t as wary as he was the first time.

Anyway, Aditya is safe.

They slit the top of the letter open, eyes widening as they scan the first part of the letter. They hand it to Harry to read.

“Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry?”

They glance at each other, and continue reading. 

“Dear Mr. Potdar,

 

We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.Please find enclosed a list of all necessary supplies and equipment. 

 

Term begins on September First. We await your owl no later than July 31st.

 

Sincerely, 

Minerva Mcgonagall

Deputy Headmistress”

“So it’s a joke?”

Aditya looks at it closely.“Looks too real. And your name? Why?” they sign. 

“And who. The Dursley’s are always telling me magic isn’t real, so why would they send me something like this?”

“Dudley’s friends?”

Harry shakes his head. Sure, Dudley’s gang likes to chase and taunt him, but they wouldn’t do anything without their esteemed leader. 

“Crazy person?”

Harry makes himself dizzy with how hard he shakes his head. “What crazy person has the money to afford ink and paper like this?

Aditya glances at the envelope and their eyes narrow. “Cupboard?”

Harry waves his hand. “Not important. I-”

“It damn well is important, kid!”

Aditya had made it a point to learn all the curse words in sign language. Possibly to stay true to their real way of speaking.

“But it’s not.” Harry gives them a wide eyed stare. “I can’t do anything about it, you can’t do anything about it, so it’s fine. And it’s not horrible, just a little cramped.”

Aditya shakes their head, fists clenched. They let out a deep breath and relax, grabbing the pen and paper they fall back to when they don’t know what to say in sign language. “Fine, we’ll talk about this later kid. The letter?”

Harry shrugs. “What are we supposed to do? We don’t have an owl. And magic? I may not like the Dursleys, but I’m pretty sure they’re right when they say magic doesn’t exist.”

Aditya shrugs. “If anyone is magical, it’s you kid. Now come on, I think your stomach could wake the dead.”

The blush covering Harry’s cheeks could be used as a traffic light, but he lets Aditya lead him to the break room and feed him apples and caramel.

 

They eventually decide to just put a letter in the mail and deal with any backlash when it comes. They address it to “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” and basically ask “What the hell do you mean by magic?”

Two weeks fly by in which nothing happens. Absolutely nothing. 

Harry goes through life at the Dursleys, gains a gash that he thinks will scar along his arm, and visits the library to practice sign language with Aditya. 

Well, something happens. Aunt Petunia starts insisting on getting the mail herself now, pawing through it before giving it to Uncle Vernon.

So she knows he’s expecting a letter. But that explains nothing at all. 

Until, on the day of his birthday, a knock sounds on the door.

Everyone in the family except Harry pauses and looks at it for a second. Harry continues mopping the floor, oblivious to the sudden stillness of the house. 

Uncle Vernon eventually gets up and plods to the door, heavy steps making the floor vibrate. Harry finally looks up at that.  

Before his uncle can open the door, another knock is heard and seen, the force literally shaking the door frame. Head tilted, Harry watches as his Uncle seems to gather his strength and wrench the door open.

Right when the person was about to knock.

The force of the blow causes Uncle Vernon to fall to the ground, and blood spouts from his nose in a grotesque waterfall. 

Harry’s seen the view from behind the nose bleed, and it’s not pretty. 

His aunt and cousin rush to his uncle, and he sees the mysterious figure bend down and reach a hand out. Uncle Vernon scrambles away and Harry really wishes he could hear what they’re all saying. 

The person keeps bending down, enough to fit into the doorway. Their coat catches on the door handle and instead of unhooking it, they yank. 

The door gives before the coat does, and Harry can see their face go red underneath their beard-he then. He crouches down to pick up the door and shoves it back in it’s frame, causing a crack to appear in the wall.

Aunt Petunia faints.

Uncle Vernon is holding a rag to his nose, and from the waving of his arms, probably yelling. Dudley has hidden behind the couch in the sitting room screaming “Mummy!”

The man ignores them, instead turning to face Harry. His face splits into a grin, but that’s all Harry can see under his beard. He has absolutely no clue what he’s saying. 

So he just nods. Nods, looks down at the mans shoes, and tries to fade into the background.

But this man, with the big hands that could crush and hurt, pulls out a box from in his coat, and hands it to Harry. He opens it to find a cake covered in pink frosting and green icing spelling the words “Happee Burthday Hari!”

So… Hari? Is that a real thing?

It doesn’t matter now though, because the man raises his hand and it’s falling, falling, right onto Harry’s-Hari’s?- shoulder. He flinches away, squishing the cake in its box against his chest, and looks away.

But the hand just pats his shoulder, softly. For something that just caused his uncle a nosebleed, it’s surprisingly gentle. 

He risks a glance upwards and the man is smiling at him, a confused quirk to his lips. Hari - he’s sticking with it now, it looks nice and feels  _ right  _ \- gives a smile of his own, the edges weak and shaky. 

But the man seems pleased and that’s all that matters.

His beard keeps moving, up and down and up and down, and he’s talking? 

Hari just nods along, head following the motion of the man’s beard.

Up and down and up and down. 

At one point, the man rummages through his pockets and pulls out...a live bird?

It’s an owl, Hari realizes, and soon the man is writing on the same cloth like paper the letter had been, and handing it to the owl, as odd as it looked. The owl takes it in its beak, looks around, and butts its head against the man’s hand. He jumps and hurries to open the window and the owl flies out. 

And Hari just watches.

Because really, what else are you supposed to do when a giant man breaks into your house, rants at you when you can’t hear, gives you a cake, and releases an owl with a letter out the window. 

But now the man is waving at Hari, motioning towards the door. He points to the second piece of paper in Hari’s hand, his beard still moving, up and down and up and down. 

The second page has a list of school supplies and a notice at the bottom concerning brooms and pets. Why anyone would want to bring a broom to school is beyond him, but the pets are interesting. He’s never heard of someone having a pet owl before. 

And the supplies! Potion making ingredients? The standard book of spells? A telescope?

Where would someone get those? Was this a joke?

And Hari had seen the prices of telescopes, had looked them up when astronomy had taken his fancy. The cheapest were forty-five pounds, and he barely has thirty saved up. How can he afford all of this with the meager amount of notes hidden in a sock under his cot?

But the man is just smiling, hand out for Hari to grab. 

The Dursleys are still cowering behind the couch, sobbing. The weren’t even looking at him.

He could dash out the back door. He’s fast, and the man in front of him is a giant, would have to maneuver around the furniture in his way, and still barely fit through the sliding door. 

And why should he stay? This man walks in and hands him a letter that’s likely a joke, and asks him to come with him with no proof of it’s reality. It had human trafficking written all over it. 

But he can’t leave without his savings. He waits until the man is distracted again and runs to his cupboard, opens the door without a sound, and grabs the sock underneath the cot. He sneaks back into the living room before anyone notices. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dudley apparently forget about crying. He’s moving towards the coffee table, towards the cake Hari had set down around the time the man pulled out an  _ owl  _ from his coat.

And his Uncle Vernon is screaming at the man again, but his back is towards Hari, so he could be singing a ballad for all Hari knew. His aunt is standing again, tears in her eyes and lips pursed. She sees Hari staring at her and sneers. “Freak.” 

He looks away.

Dudley has gotten his hands on the cake, and now it’s all over his front and face. Hari grimaces at the stains he will no doubt be forced to get out. 

The man notices the walrus resembling child making a pig of himself in the cake he worked so hard to make for another, and gets angry. Hari flinches back from the steel that enters those black eyes, and the man pulls out a pink umbrella - where does he find a coat with so many pockets - and points it towards Dudley. 

Aunt Petunia’s eyes go wide and her hands start to shake, but Dudley just glares and hugs the cake closer to his chest. The man seems to shake with the force of his own growl before a brilliant light shoots out of the top of the umbrella and Dudley clutches his hands to his arse. 

Hari stands dumbfounded as the edge of a pink pig tail peeks between his cousins fingers, who is still hopping around the living room wailing for his mum.

So maybe the letter isn’t a joke.

He can’t keep in the whisper of “magic” that escapes his lips, and the man looks outraged again, turns towards Vernon and Petunia who are pale and shaky. 

But Hari can’t bother to pay attention.

This, this is better than his new name. That felt right, but this magic makes his blood sing. Even now the faint feeling of the spell lingers in the room and Hari breaths it in. It’s warm and heavy and tastes like that one lemon ice lolly he’d had on a hot summer day. 

He smiles. 

But then there’s a thud that makes the floor shake, and Hari flinches before he turns to see the man had stomped his foot down, causing a crack to appear in the hardwood.

How strong someone needed to be to do that he had no idea, but obviously stronger than Uncle Vernon. The worse his Uncle had accidently done to the house was break a vase, which Hari had taken the blame for, however unwillingly. 

The scars from the glass shards still stained his hip like a starburst of gnarled skin. 

His aunt is screaming, but he’s unsure if it’s in terror or anger. Probably both. Uncle Vernon is just furious, face purple like it is when Hari burns the bacon. When he speaks, spittle flies from his mouth and lands on the man’s coat.

The man’s face twists into a sneer and suddenly he’s moving towards Hari. Hari flinches back into the wall and there’s nowhere to go and the man is reaching for him-

He yanks Hari forward, pulls him out the door. Surprisingly, his hand isn’t gripping hard enough to bruise. Hari knows Uncle Vernon took joy in squeezing as hard as he could and seeing his own handprint on Hari’s arm, and he hadn’t considered that this man wouldn’t do the same. 

But he doesn’t and he even lets Hari go once they get a block away from the house. The man turns to face him and rubs the back of his neck with one hand, his beard moving up and down. He avoids Hari’s eye and-is he apologizing for something?

So Hari smiles and nods his head. The man is relieved, obviously, and Hari’s glad he read that situation correctly. 

The man grins and pulls out a flask from the inside of his coat. Hari’s face goes carefully blank as the smell of liquor washes over the both of them and the giant takes a drink. 

Long healed and not so healed hurts ache. 

The man replaces the flask and hurries them a long, staying next to Hari and pointing to where they are going. He debates dashing away, but if he’s caught, it’s definitely going to hurt. Better to stay and listen. 

Or at least follow. The man shows them to the underground before shoving money in Hari’s hands to deal with. He carefully counts out enough for two tickets before pocketing the rest, next to his own meager savings. No use in it going to waste.

The man doesn’t even notice that he’s now missing forty quid, and sits down, taking three seats to Hari’s half. He pulls out massive knitting needles and what looks like a yarn tent to work on as they fly on the tracks. 

Hari sits, huddled in his seat, carrying the ball of yarn the man had handed to him.

He really need to learn this man’s name. 

Eventually they wrap up all the yarn, place it back in the man’s coat, though Hari can’t believe it fits, and leave the station. The man walks across the street, leaving Hari to cross it himself. He glances both ways before dashing over to where the man is waiting. 

The street bustles around them, all the shops overflowing with customers, except one. A dingy sign labels it as the Leaky Cauldron, and through a dusty window Hari can see tables and a fireplace roaring, even in the middle of summer. 

Oddly enough, no one else is looking at the old fashioned tavern like he is. Their eyes slide right over it, and their steps seem to quicken. 

He doesn’t have enough time to ponder it, because now the man is pulling him towards it, pushing the heavy oak door open. 

Hari breaths in the smell of roast and alcohol, and the warmth of something that reminds him of the flash of light from the giant's umbrella that makes his blood sing. 

It’s an orchestra, and he sinks into the chords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this came out quickly.  
> Chapter five was a breeze to write for some reason, but it might just be in comparison to chapter four. I can only hope chapter six flows as easily as that one.
> 
> But here you are! Chapter three. This is going a lot quicker than I imagined.
> 
> See ya!  
> CL


	4. A Stick, a Snake, and a Snowy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> So far these chapters are coming out quickly and I can only hope it stays that way. I just started chapter seven, but there is chapter four!  
> It's super long compared to the others, literally double the length, but I didn't really feel like coming up with a new chapter name so you get double the content in one chapter. Yay!  
> And honestly, screw spacing. It's just there now.  
> Happy reading!  
> CL

When they walk into the Leaky Cauldron, everyone is fully invested in their meal and drinks. 

Until the barkeep speaks up. 

Hari doesn’t notice anything until the man beside him assumedly speaks back. Hari turns to who he was speaking to and catches the tail end of a sentence.

“It’s Hari Potdar!”

What?

All of a sudden he feels a hand on his elbow, and another on his shoulder. He goes statue still as they turn him around to face them and it’s such a big crowd, there’s too many of them all speaking and he just sees fragments of their own conversations.

“Scar”

“Boy-who-lived.”

“Like lightning.”

“Such a pleasure.”

“The honor.”

His breath quickens and his eyes dart. He feels more hands and arms pulling pulling pulling-

An even bigger hand settles on his shoulder and he turns to his escort talking to the crowd. Or something. The beard is moving at least.

The man is pulling him towards another door, across from the fireplace that strangely enough isn’t giving off heat. 

Before they can escape, another man steps in front of them. The first thing Hari notices about him is the horrible smell of garlic wafting off of him. Even in his current post panic state, he wrinkles his nose at the smell that seems like it’s coming from the purple turban the man is wearing. He quickly smooths his features when he notices the man staring at him. 

The man with his hand still on his shoulder says something, and the man in front responds in kind. But Hari just can’t figure out what he’s saying. It’s like he’s repeating random words, and others are slow while some are fast and why is this so confusing-

Oh. A stutter. No wonder he couldn’t read him.

So Hari just nods and offers a nervous smile when what looks like a question falls from the man’s lips. He seems pleased and offers his own shaky grin. 

He leaves quickly after that, and Hari and his escort are finally allowed to go through the door into…

A dirty alley?

Ah, so this is where it falls apart. This is where the man is going to take him and bruise him and bloody him and he should have known, why didn’t he run.

The man takes out the same pink umbrella, which looks like it would probably hurt less than the cane his uncle uses, unless the magic can make him hurt even worse.

He doesn’t let that image stick in his head.

But the man only takes a second to tap a brick on the seemingly innocent wall which then starts to move.

Hari can’t even describe what he’s feeling right now.

But the bricks flow into a archway, and the man winces at what Hari can only imagine is a horrible grating noise.

He makes a grand gesture with his umbrella, realizes how ridiculous he looks waving a pink parasol, and repeats the gesture with one of his humongous hands. 

And really, Hari thinks this dirty alley does not make a good enough entrance for the street before him. 

There’s color everywhere, some of them changing even while he looks at them. Blinding and dazzling the eyes when they reflect the sun from above. 

The smell of slow churned ice cream, the kind Dudley always demanded, tickled his nose. Along with it was the scent of roasted nuts and caramel candies for toppings that made his stomach growl.

And through it all, that same sense of magic. That same energy that made goosebumps appear on his arms and his blood rush to his head. 

He sways from the onslaught of it all. In this moment, he’s almost glad he can’t hear what has to be utter chaos in the scene before him. 

His escort doesn’t allow him a break though, instead dragging him through the crowd. In this mess, no one takes a second to glance at him, which means no repeats of whatever happened in the tavern.

He could live without another scene like that, thank you very much. 

The man doesn’t pause until they’re on the steps of a marble building that towers over the rest. He points to an inscription besides the doors that Hari thinks popped right out of one of J.R.R. Tolkien’s works.

_ Enter, stranger, but take heed _

_ Of what awaits the sin of greed _

_ For those who take, but do not earn, _

_ Must pay most dearly in their turn. _

_ So if you seek beneath our floors _

_ A treasure that was never yours, _

_ Thief, you have been warned, beware _

_ Of finding more than treasure there. _

What actual establishment had this creepy warning as the first thing you saw?

He sees the sign above it.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

He has such a big headache right now.

The man opens up the doors for him, and pulls him along. The room he finds himself in continues the marble trend the exterior set, and along the walls are tall desks that his escort is level with. Which means that Hari has to be seven feet back and crane his neck up to see the wrinkly face that peeks over the edge of the varnished wood. 

“And does Mr. Potdar have his key?”

What would he need a key for?

But the man beside him rummages through his coat, pulling out crumpled biscuits and mice and placing them on the teller’s desk, who responds with a sneer. 

He finally pulls out a key that looks like it will break in his strong grasp, and a letter that has one too many jam stains on it. He hands both to the teller, whose frown seems even deeper now. Hari shrinks back from the annoyance in those eyes, while the man beside him seems to draw himself up. 

Hari wishes he had that kind of confidence. Or obliviousness. Maybe a mix of both.

The teller hops down from whatever mind bogglingly high stool they had to sit on to reach the desk to reveal someone...Hari’s height.

He is so confused.

He keeps his eyes trained on the ground and follows his escorts footsteps, which send mini earthquakes through the floor. 

They’re led to an archway behind the desks, that seems remarkably under lit compared to the room they were just in.    Hari’s feet slap against what is now dark tile until he notices trolley tracks beside him.

There’s magic coming off of these, but it’s archaic and twisted in a way that makes it both elegant and blunt. He squints at it and the way it seems to vibrate.

The teller is watching him now. He tenses and straightens before training his eyes on his sneakers. Looking through his fringe, Hari can see the tiny man grin, teeth-and he thinks fangs-sharp. He looks down again. 

Hari’s head feels light.

The vibrations from the tracks are stronger now, making the floor shake even if the tile shows no sign of cracking. The teller is looking behind them, holding a lantern that hadn’t been there before, and Hari feels the air move beside him. He turns to see what looks like a miners cart from the pictures his teacher had showed the class. It gives off the same feeling as the tracks underneath it do, and he watches it as it rolls to a stop in front of the teller. 

The man next to him winces, and Hari wonders if it’s from the possible metal on metal screech, or what’s to come. 

The man next to him picks him up with no warning, and plops him into the cart. His breath quickens and his arm aches from the cut that still hadn’t healed, but soon the teller is front of him, hanging the lantern on a hook. Oddly enough, he turns to face Hari fully before speaking, almost as if he knows.

“We will first be going to your trust vault, Mr. Potdar. You may take as much from it as you would like, the amount in it resets each year.”

Did he mean money?

The sock in his pocket felt lighter than ever. 

When his escort settles in behind him with a white knuckled grip on the edges of the cart, the teller smiles the same sharp grin he did earlier and waves his hand.

There is no acceleration in the cart. At one second it is stationary, the next it’s off like a bullet. 

Hari had seen videos of a roller coaster, his teacher was fond of showing things from her own vacations, but he could never imagine the absolute exhilaration that rushed through him.

Not as exciting as magic, but it was definitely a close second. 

The man behind him was shaking more than the cart permitted. He turned to see a green cast to his cheeks and a hand over his mouth. Hari quickly turned around again when a flash of orange and bone caught his eye. 

What was that?

He whips around to follow the sight but they turn around a corner before he can get more than a glimpse of scale and a flash of heat.   
Dragons didn’t exist, did they?   
Luckily enough, the cart had some form of deceleration, and they slowed to a stop in front of a heavy metal door. The teller hopped out and his escort pulled himself out before lifting Hari out of the cart. He lets himself go limp when the man picks him up, only bracing his legs for when the man places him none too gently back on the ground. 

His ankle is starting to throb. 

The teller takes out the key the man had handed him upstairs and places it in an almost invisible hole in the doorway. Instead of opening from the edge, the door opens from the middle, revealing two tall doors that open to reveal a mountain of treasure.

He isn’t even exaggerating. Himalayas of gold are stacked in this vault, and the teller has said this was his trust fund?

He stumbles forward, the teller following. Hari turns towards him. “This is all mine?”

He sneers and shoves a leather bag into Hari’s hands. “Yes, Mr. Podtar. Put as much as you want in the bag, it’s never ending.”

He has absolutely no idea what that means, but he takes the bag, turns it upside down, and scoops up as many of the solid gold coins as he can.

Which is actually a lot more than he thought it would be.

He doesn’t struggle to lift it, which probably has something to do with the sense of magic he feels coming off of it, and he’s eternally grateful for that, considering his arm still aches. The teller quickly explains what galleons, sickles, and knuts are before they all load up in the cart.

But instead of heading back up, they’re taken deeper. Hari sits quietly hugging his new found fortune to his chest, not daring to question in case it’s taken away.

This is his ticket out. Even if the escort he’s with is a madman and this entire thing is a hoax, this is real. 

Maybe. He’d never seen real gold before.

The man behind him looks decidedly more green when they stop again, and him and the teller are the only ones to get out. No one bothers to tell Hari what’s happening, so he just watches. 

The teller walks to a wall that’s covered in what looks like clockwork made of gold. He runs a finger down the middle and it parts, showing a large stone room filled with...

A burlap sack. 

Wonderful.

Hari glances at the door again, intrigued by it’s working while the giant crouches to pick up the sack. Above the doorway he can see the numbers 713 engraved in the stone.

Everyone loads back up in the cart again, and Hari is squished against the edges of the cart before the man pulls him up and sits him on the edge of his knee. Hari looks back to see him smiling sheepishly and offering a shrug. He mirrors it and looks forward, forcing his hands to still. 

The trip back is a lot less exciting, with all the ups and none of the rushes down. Hari pouts the tiniest bit when he’s helped off, but lets his face clear when the man shows him to the door. 

Thinking quickly, he asks the man for a moment, just to ask the teller a question. It’s technically not a lie. 

The man nods, a little bewildered, and Hari runs back to the teller.

“Excuse me,” he waves his hand slightly. “What’s your name?”

He grins. “Griphook.”

Hari nods before pointing back to his escort. “And what’s his name?”

The teller sneers. “Hagrid.”

Hari nods before putting on what he thinks is his best smile. He’s not entirely sure, he hasn’t been able to practice in a mirror. “Thank you for assisting Hagrid and I to the vaults today.”

The sneer seems to fade on his face when he responds “Not at all Mr. Potdar.”

He nods, takes a deep breath, and turns to walk back to who he now knows is Hagrid. 

The man greets him with a smile, oblivious to the fact that despite meeting almost three hours earlier, Hari had just learned his name. Hari has a feeling that he wouldn’t take offence even if he did know.   
Hagrid shows him to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions before rushing off to who knows where.   
From all Hari has heard and read of tailors, he’s expecting to be forced to take off his clothes and be measured in his underwear, with all his scars shining in broad daylight. He can feel his chest tighten even before the sales attendant comes to lead him to a stool.   
He’s dizzy with relief when she just waves a stick that smells of lemons and a measuring tape shoots out of the end, no matter how similar to a whip it looks. Beside him a pointy faced blonde kid with startling silver eyes gives an odd look at his sigh of relief.    
“Are you okay?”   
Hari just nods, doesn’t trust his voice after that sudden influx of panic. The boy offers a confused smile before turning towards the sales lady and saying something. Hari turns back to the attendee helping him who asks if he’s heading to Hogwarts.   
The letter weighs in his pocket and he nods again. She smiles and points to the boy next to him who had apparently been speaking to him.    
“What?”   
Why was he like this?   
The boy looks positively affronted, which Hari supposes is justified enough. “I said, ‘where are your parents?’”   
Hari has a half second of feeling awkward for the boy, of all the things to bring up. “Dead.”   
His eyes go wide even while the sales attendee accidently scratches Hari with the tape measure. Hari doesn’t even flinch.   
He can see the boy flounder for a second before seeming to ground himself and push on. “Well my mother is out looking at wands, and my father is meeting us at Flourish and Blotts. My godfather is in the apothecary though.” He grins, smug. “He’s the Potions Master at Hogwarts.”   
“The what?”   
Hari really needs to work on his filter.   
The boy’s face changes dramatically, going from smug grin to narrowed eyes.  Hari can feel his gaze running over ratty, too big sneakers to frayed sleeves and torn jeans. “You’re a muggleborn, aren’t you?”

It’s Hari’s turn to squint. “What’s that?”

He huffs and crosses his arms, earning a glare from the sales attendee. He holds out his arm mockingly and she smiles and rolls her eyes, him smirking. He turns back to face Hari. “It’s a wizard whose parent are both muggles, non-wizards. Are you?”

Hari shrugs. “I never knew my parents.”

The boy seems to contemplate it for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. He nods to himself before sticking his hand out, causing the sales lady to sigh. “My name is Draco. You are?”

Hari grins, distracted by the boy’s name. “Like the constellation? That’s so cool!”

Draco smiles back. “Thanks. My Uncle Reg, well my godfather, but I call him uncle, is named after a star which isn’t as amazing, but it’s still cool.” Draco and the attendees jump and turn towards the window, Hari following their gaze.

He see’s Hagrid holding up two ice creams, both melting quickly in the hot sun. He beams and mimics holding one out to Hari. 

He misses whatever Draco says to him when the attendee pats him on the shoulder and tells him he’s done. He waves to the blonde as he dashes out the front door   
Hagrid smiles and holds out an ice cream, the swirls drooping and chocolate sauce melting onto Hari’s fingers. He beams and takes it, licking the stickiness off his hands.

He forgot when he had last eaten. 

He thinks he liked the ice lolly more, but this has sprinkles that sparkle and change colors, and really that’s tough competition. 

Hagrid is enjoying one just like Hari’s but in chocolate instead of vanilla. His beard moves, the same up and down movement Hari has seen so often, this time the beard covered in chocolate ice cream. He winks at Hari as if sharing a private joke and Hari smiles. 

He leads them to a trunk store first, and Hari watches as he talks with the owner. Hari makes his way to the displays, glancing at one that said Hogwarts Standard before passing it on for one that was bigger.    
The sign said two hidden compartments with a built in expansion charm, featherweight charm, shrinking charm, and customizable passwords. Hari is willing to deal with whatever the rest was for two hidden compartments and a password.   
He drags it back to where Hagrid is still talking with the owner. He helps Hari count out the money and taps the trunk with his umbrella to make it shrink to the size of a match box. Hari basks in the feeling of the magic and places the trunk and its instruction book in his pocket.   
That sets the pace for the rest of their shopping trip, Hari choosing what he wanted, Hagrid helping him with the money before packing it up and heading to the next store.    
Hari does debate buying a gold cauldron, just because he can, but he can’t imagine ever actually using it. He barely even knows what he was buying the rest of this for.    
But he buys it because if it was needed at a school, it was needed to learn.   
Hagrid is happy talking to one of his friends in the bookstore, so Hari is able to wander around the store and pick out books.   
And pick out books he did.   
Hari ends up getting almost three times the books that were on the list and drags them all to the front desk. Hagrid shakes his head while his friend laughs and says something that looks a lot like “Ravenclaw,” whatever that means. There’s an odd moment when the man catches sight of his scar and goes bright red, but Hari just hands his money bag to Hagrid to count out what he needs.   
The books all fit in his trunk, luckily enough, and Hari glances at the list again.    
Where do you even get a wand?   
But Hagrid seems to have other ideas.    
He shows them to what looks like a pet store, and Hari wishes so much he could actually understand what this man was saying because the man seems ecstatic. He nudges Hari towards the door and he obediently opens it, pausing once the smell hits him.

He didn’t know that you could cover the smell of pets with that much peppermint. 

There are pets in pens playing together, mostly what looks like cats and dogs, though there is a bunny pen further in the corner. Fancy mice line the walls doing circus tricks and dazzling a couple o the younger customers. There are turtles at one table, with shells that actually sparkle, and Hari thinks that’s probably not a normal thing. Throughout, owls sit in regal cages and occasionally flap their wings when they’re bored.

A lot of them seem bored actually.

Especially a snowy owl, with amber eyes and spotted feathers. 

She’s in cage lower than the rest for some reason, so Hari is able to reach up and pet her wings. She leans in to his fingers and her beak opens in what he assumes is a hoot.

He feels an arm grab his shoulder and pull back, and he can’t help the squeak that escapes him. In front of him the snowy is hooting as well, batting her wings against the edge of the cage with a glare in her eyes. 

The person spins him around to reveal an employee who grabs his hand. Hari winces. The last time his fingers had been broken, he hadn’t been able to write for a week.

But the man just turns his hand over and over, inspecting them for something. He finally looks up at Hari and says, “Why didn’t you stop when I told you to?”

Hari freezes and tries to tug his hand from the man’s. “Nothing. It’s fine. That’s a pretty owl.” It’s not his best change of subjects, but it works now.

The man smirks. “Yeah, she is. But everyone who’s touched her has gotten bit.” He shows Hari his own hands, which as covered in scratches and bite marks, but points to one that is still red on the back of his hand. “This one is from her when I tried to feed her last week. A rather nasty bite.”

Hari nods as if he understands, and the man smiles before his brows furrow. “But I think, if you’re the only who can pet here, you’re probably the only one who can have her.”

The man looks up when Hagrid comes next to them, probably asking what happened. As the employee explained, Hari slips away back to the owl. 

She’s preening her feathers now, but she watches him approach with one amber eye. 

The employee’s words stick with him, and he hesitantly holds out one hand again. Her chest rumbles and she leans forward, opening her beak. He flinches a little, but doesn’t pull his hand away. A huff goes through her chest, and Hari didn’t even know owls could do that, but then she leans forward and nips his finger. He giggles  at the sensation and she hoots before doing it again. 

But there’s something that makes him freeze.

He hears something.

It’s a whisper, but it’s there, after two months of complete silence. 

He gives one last pet to the snowy owl before following the sound, and isn’t that  novelty in his life now? Is he getting his hearing back? Is this just his imagination? But no, he still hears the whisper, and nothing else. 

It’s coming from the corner opposite of the bunnies, and he sees a glass terrarium filled with soft mulch and twisted branches. 

The whispers stop and he pauses, sees something shift on one of the branches reaching towards the stone water bowl. The hissing starts again and he shuffles forward.

“Hello,” he says, and he can hear himself it’s been so long.

“A speaker?” It’s different from the voices he remembers, the s long and slower. 

“I speak, yes. I didn’t know snakes could though.”

“Not to all,” they say, and leave it at that.

Hari moves forward until he’s able to see who’s he’s speaking to. 

It’s a snake, just like he thought. Pale enough to blend into the driftwood in the terrarium, almost purple with soft yellow spots. 

“Can other snakes talk?”

“To those who listen.”

“But I can’t hear.”

At this the snake finally looks at him. The snout is softer than he imagined, and a pink tongue peeks out. “And yet my voice reaches your ears.”

Hari is too exhausted from the ups and downs of the day to try and puzzle that out. “What’s your name?”

“Inithia, leader of song and dance.”

He smiles. “That’s pretty. My name is Hari, but I don’t know the meaning. Do I call you she?”

She nods, before laying her head back down. 

A tap on his shoulder brings him back to the rest of the world, and a smiling lady is standing behind him. Her hair is dyed a pale purple and she has a silver piercing in her ear.   
“Were you talking to the snake?”   
He nods, a grin still on his lip. “Her name is Inithia, leader of song and dance.”   
Her smile is as bright as his. “I didn’t know that. But I do know that she’s a ball python.”   
“Really?” He squints at her. “I thought ball pythons were green.”   
“The common morphs are.” She points to Inithia. “But she’s a lavender banana ball python, which just means she’s special.”

“Like your hair does to you?”

She grins and touches her own messy locks. “Exactly.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“It is.” She glances back at the snake. “Do you think you would want her as a pet?”

Hari frowns. “Can an animal that talk to you be a pet? And I think the letter said I was only allowed a cat, an owl, or a toad.”

She smirked. “The letter says that, but the official rules don’t mention anything about pets, so they can’t get people in trouble if it’s harmless, like Inithia here is. And she can be your friend, not a pet.”

He thinks about this before heading over to Inithia. She’s curled up on top of one of the branches dozing. “Would you like to learn about magic with me?”

She lifts her head to study him. Hari fingers the edge of his frayed shirt. He glances up and she nods. 

“As long as you promise fresh mice, I will follow.”

He frowns and turns to the lady. “Can I get her fresh mice?”

Smiling, she nods. 

“Then she said she will follow.” The lady’s grin doesn’t falter and she helps him count out his money for all the supplies. 

“Your parents will be okay with this?”

His parents? Unless communication was available beyond the grave, they couldn’t say anything about it. But his relatives-

He shudders. But the thought of leaving the only thing he can hear horrifies him more. 

“It’s worth it.”

She nods and writes a receipt for him. He smiles and waves, holding the shrunken materials in his pocket and Inithia around his shoulders. She’s dozing again,  and Hari is jealous at her ability to fall asleep in this blinding chaos. 

He finds Hagrid quickly, towering over the rest of the customers. He’s holding a cage with an owl, the owl. The snowy with the amber eyes. He doesn’t bat an eye at the snake on Hari’s shoulders, just beams and hands Hari a card. 

Maybe it’s just the translation from icing to paper, but his handwriting is a lot better. And he obviously got someone’s help with spelling because he actually spelled “Happy Birthday” correctly.

Hari thinks he’s going to cry.

He opens it to find a drawing of a snowy owl that looks like one of the sketches in the art books Hari looks at in the library.

“Hagrid, this is amazing! It only took you a couple of minutes?”

The man smiles and nods, running a hand through his beard. It’s moving up and down again, and Hari wishes he had told him earlier that he couldn’t hear, this would be a lot less awkward. He offers the owl in the cage to Hari.

“For me?”

He beams, and offers it again.

“I-are you sure? The drawing is amazing, I’d be fine with that.”

Hagrid gets a dark look in his eye and he looks away. Hari tenses the tiniest bit but the man lets out a deep breath and turns back with a smile. The beard moves up and down again and he offers the cage with hooting owl inside. 

Hari takes it. 

And really, this is a lot. This is too much. His first birthday cake, his first contact with concentrated magic, his new fortune, his first gift from someone other than Aditya?

He sniffles a tiny bit, but doesn’t let the tears fall.

Hagrid has the decency to ignore Hari’s suddenly wet eyes and shows them out the door to another store.

Ollivander’s.

Hari can barely see the sign over the crowd, but he’s just tall enough to see the window display. A dusty velvet cloth showcases a stick like the one the lady at Madam Malkin’s that’s described as a  wand on a banner over it. Hari can feel the power of the wand through the glass, like cinnamon and the fireplace.

Well at least the wand thing made sense. 

Hagrid opens the door for him, holding the owl too because hari had barely been able to lift the cage. Hari smiles at him and walks in, Inithia a comforting weight on his shoulders.

And his nose starts to bleed. 

It drips onto his shirt which luckily enough is brown, but right now it’s turning sticky and an ugly maroon.

A man rushes up with silver eyes that look like mirrors. He offers a handkerchief and Hari holds the cloth up to his nose. The white is quickly stained red, but the man doesn’t bother giving Hari another. He takes a stick of his own out and points it at Hari’s nose, the wand giving off a salty scent Hari doesn’t recognize. With a twitch of his lips, Hari’s nose feels as fine as it did five minutes ago. 

The man mutters something too jumbled for Hari to read before he pauses, looking past Hari. He turns around to follow his gaze and only sees a mirror. When he turns around the man is signing in perfect BSL.   
Hari feels some of the tension leave his shoulders.    
“Hari Potdar,” the man signs. “I had wondered when I was seeing you.”   
Hari keeps silent and his hands stay still. Inithia starts to wake up and nudges his face with her snout. Her tongue pokes out and she sneezes.    
“The air is heavy.”   
Hari nods to her, taking in the cinnamon smell and the magic in the air like electricity. It sits in his lungs like a first breath, but the pressure makes his head hurt.   
The man, who Hari assumes is Ollivander, turns to Hagrid, but signs for Hari’s benefit. “Rubeus! A while since I’ve seen you. Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy wasn’t it?”   
Hagrid nodded, his brow furrowed. He was staring at Ollivander’s hands, glancing at Hari every once in a while. Suddenly his jaw went slack.   
“You’re deaf!”   
All the tension that had drained from Hari’s shoulders suddenly returns. He nods, quick and sharp. Hagrid’s beard moves up and down, but Ollivander doesn’t sign anything so he’s probably just gasping.    
“Why didn’t you tell me?”   
His shoulders hunch up more, close to his ears now, but Ollivander takes over the scene.   
“Enough of that, Mr. Potdar here needs a wand. Now let’s see, which is your wand arm?”   
The sign for wand, Hari soon learned, was the sign for stick followed by the sign for magic. At least that would be easy to remember.    
He holds out his right armand Ollivander animates a tape measure just like the other lady had done. While Ollivander turns to face the rows of boxes that go on for as far as Hari can see, Hari turns to face Hagrid.   
Luckily enough, the man at least doesn’t look angry. But he does look betrayed.    
Hari doesn’t know if that’s worse.   
“I,” he has no idea what to say. Inithia is still sniffing around from her perch, but she turns to him when he hesitates. Not offering any words, just watching. He takes a deep breath and starts again.   
“I didn’t mean to betray your trust or-or hurt you. I just-It’s still pretty recent, and I didn’t want you to judge me. And when you came in you were big and scary and I couldn’t lip read because of your beard and the only thing I understood was the letter which I thought was a joke, and-”   
He’s looking at his shoes now, and he’s not entirely sure when that happened. But a pair of big hands come out of nowhere and he flinches back before they take his own hands. He looks up to find Hagrid speaking, but not to him. Ollivander obviously replies and he turns to Hari. He gives him a thumbs up and Hari laughs wetly.   
“It’s okay.”   
And really, Hari is surprised it is. But there’s still a niggling doubt in his brain. 

“Are you sure? I can pay back for the ice cream, and the owl is pretty, I’m not sure I deserve her.”

Aditya could only do so much.

Hagrid’s beard whips back and forth when he shakes his head. He instinctively opens his mouth before huffing. He turns again to Ollivander, behind Hari, and he hands him a piece of what Hari found out was parchment along with a quill. He writes something, scratches it out, writes another thing, and hands it to Hari.   
“You do deserve her, and from what I see, she thinks the same.”   
Hari glances at the owl that had been sitting patiently on one of the shoulder height shelves that ran across the front wall of the store. She caught Hari watching and flapped her wings as if showing her agreement.

His smile is shaky all of a sudden, and he swallows to get past the sudden emotion in his throat. “Thank you.”   
Hagrid smiles and glances at Ollivander before signing, “You’re welcome.”

The tape measure suddenly flies up to measure the distance between his nostrils and he sneezes from the sensation. It’s odd seeing someone as big as Hagrid laugh with no sound, but it is funny. And a snake’s laugh turns out to be like a series of very short hisses. He turns around to find Ollivander smiling serenely, a pile of boxes stacked next to him.    
He doesn’t waste any time. The moment Hari’s eyes are on him, he starts signing. “Take this, wave it in the air.” A wand from a box that Hari hadn’t even seen being opened is suddenly opened and he does as asked, waving it before it’s snatched out of his hands.   
“No, no. Too mellow.” He hums for a second and Hari puts his two cents in.    
“It smelled like soap.”   
Ollivander’s eyes cut to him, like moons over water. “Soap? Interesting. And what about this one?”   
Hari feels the wand in his hands for a second. “Like sugar.”   
It continues, Ollivander handing Hari wands and then whisking them out of his hands, no matter the smell or the reaction when it’s waved. Hari starts to despair when the pile of rejects grows taller than him.    
He sneezes at one that smelled like the clothes in the back of Aunt Petunia’s closet, and smiled at the scent of fresh baked cookies that came off of one about the length of his forearm.

But there’s one that doesn’t just let off a certain smell. No, in his hands, it sings. He gasps at the feeling and twirls it in the air. Multi-colored sparks fly out and sparkle in the air, disappearing before they hit the ground. Inithia pokes one with her snout and huffs.

“Not prey,” is all she says.   
He breathes in the smell the magic leaves, like an afternoon in the library. Old books with the spicy scent of his favorite tea that Aditya brings from home.    
He looks up to find both men clapping, though Ollivander’s brows are furrowed. Hari is too elated to worry about that, instead waving his wand to see if the sparks will come out again.   
They don’t the first time, but when he focuses on the feeling he felt before, they’re back brighter than ever. He grins.

Hagrid pats him on the back and it takes everything for Hari to not drop to the floor. His bruises ache all of a sudden and his arm and ankle throb. 

He’s not even sure when he hurt his ankle. 

Ollivander gestures for him to hand the wand over, but Hari hesitates. 

“If someone took it,” his words are so slow and measured. “Could they break it?”

Ollivander’s eyes hold an old sorrow and his face seems to wear a hundred years more. 

“The only things that could break wands of my make are myself, a licensed government official, and a few odd magical trees. I’ve never quite gotten the hang of those. But no, any random person would not be able to take and break your wand.”

Hari smiles until Ollivander interrupts. “However, as you are deaf, there is a slight problem.”

He freezes, tempted to snatch the wand from Ollivander’s hand and run. 

“Hold on, hold on. You can have your wand. But this form...”   
Is he threatening him? It’s like he’s dangling a carrot in front of his nose.   
“Learning the correct pronunciation for a magical incantation when you can’t hear is difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. Some of the wizards and witches decide that instead of relying on the verbal word, they use sign language.” He gestures to Hari’s wand on the table. “Which is difficult if you are holding a stick in your hand. In that case, they prefer one of these.”   
He pulls out a box from behind the counter. Opening the lid, he waves Hari over.    
“These, are brands.”   
Hari looks in to find wooden bracelets of all shapes and sizes. Some are stiff like the heavy metal bangles his aunt wears, and others are made of wooden beads and shimmering threads. Others remind him of the tube bead bracelets one of his classmates had come back from vacation with.

Ollivander waits until Hari is done looking at the brands before signing again. “Ultimately, it is your choice. With a brand, you will need a strong will to be able to master spells without a verbal key. But from what I saw with your second spray of sparks, that shouldn’t be a problem.”   
Hari gives him a distracted smile. On one hand, he could learn like anyone else, and struggle with everyday spells because of something he can’t fix. On the other, he could stand out because of the way he learns, but actually be able to do what everyone else is also learning to do.   
Really, it’s no competition.   
“I’d like a brand, please.”   
Ollivander smiles. And then snaps his wand.   
Hari gasps as if his lifeline has been cut. Tears spring to his eyes but he forces himself to stay quiet as Ollivander puts on gloves and extracts a red and gold string from the shattered ends of his wand.   
“Phoenix feather, truly a volatile substance. Not as volatile as veela hair though.”   
Hari has no idea what half those words are, but he watches Ollivander sign and fingerspell with one hand as he works.   
“And holly. Unusual match, holly and phoenix. Two contradicting ideas that clash and collide until they come across an owner that they approve of. Very interesting.”   
He doesn’t ask what those two ideas are. Ollivander keeps signing.   
“Curious though, that the phoenix feather that you have now is the brother to the one that gave you that scar.”   
He stares right at Hari as he says it, moon like eyes almost glowing.   
He frowns, rubs at the lightning mark on his forehead. “This? I thought it was from a car crash.”   
Hari can feel the thump through the floor and turns to see Hagrid sitting on a now broken chair. He turns back to Ollivander to see him with a burn on his finger from where the phoenix feather had touched bare skin.

“It most certainly was not from a car crash!”   
Ollivander sets down his tools and comes over, waving his wand and conjuring two chairs for them to sit in. He gestures for Hari to sit in the plush seat before doing the same and summoning a tea tray from the other room. He busies himself with pouring tea for the both of them, offering one to Hagrid as well. He finally sits down, arms steepled before they start signing.   
“Eleven years ago, a dark wizard had the ambition and power to take over the magic world. This man, Voldemort, would kill you for stepping on his rug, and would torture you for serving him food. On the night of Halloween, 1981, Lily and James Potdar were playing with you, their son, in their house when Voldemort himself strode up the walkway. He blasted down the doors and caught James Potdar without a wand. Lily took you upstairs to the nursery while James was killed, and Lily soon followed in his wake. Voldemort approached you, aimed his wand at your head, and muttered the killing curse.”   
Hari sits frozen, the tea doing nothing to warm him.   
“What happened next is anyone’s guess. In the end, the only thing left was a destroyed nursery and you with that lightning scar.

“You’re the boy-who-lived, Mr. Potdar. Credited with defeating an invincible dark lord when you were still in diapers.”

Ollivander sips his tea and watches Hari, as if waiting for an opinion on the weather.

He was glass, one touch and he would shatter.    
After a couple of minutes of silence, Ollivander stands up and goes back to working on Hari’s brand.   
“James and Lily, you said?”   
Ollivander looks up to meet Hari’s eyes. “Their names were James and Lily?”   
He nods, and Hari looks back down at his shoes with a smile. He uses his overlarge sleeve to wipe the tears off his face. 

Inithia slithers down his arm and into his lap, reaching up to lick some of the tears still falling. Hari giggles at the feeling of her tongue on his cheek and she looks decidedly smug.

Hari rubs his hand down Inithia’s back, marvelling at the texture of her scales. She wiggles in his lap and hisses, “That tickles!”

He grins and does it again, laughing when she laughs. 

He sits back after a couple minutes, eyelids heavy. Ollivander is still muttering over pieces of wood and string, and Hagrid is reading a newspaper he pulled out from his pocket. Hari pulls up a blanket he hadn’t noticed before and shuts his eyes. 

The last thing he hears is Inithia whispering, “Sleep. I’ll protect you.”

 

He’s woken up by something tapping his face. He tenses before he realizes it’s Inithia’s tail. He opens his eyes to find Ollivander standing over him and he jumps. 

“There you are. And here is your brand.”

It’s casual, the way he does it, but his eyes are bright and wide. Hari takes the bracelet from his hands and almost drops it from how amazing it feels. 

The library smell is still there, filling his lungs with the only sense of home he has. In his hands, the wooden beads are smooth, and he can just barely see a hint of red and gold between the beads. He pauses over the metal charm, a silver lion’s head. He gives Ollivander a questioning look.

“Your name. Hari means lion in Sanskrit.”

And isn’t that new information.

He puts it on and it automatically tightens to fit his skinny wrist. Hari grins and shakes it, satisfied when it doesn’t fall off.

Ollivander signs a 9 followed by one Hari’s never seen before, but Hagrid takes over and holds out a hand for the money bag. He counts out 9 of the gold coins and hands them to Ollivander. 

Smiles and waves are exchanged, and soon they’re out the door.

Hari begs to be taken back to the bookstore, and finds ten new books to add to his collection. Books about deaf wizards, wand lore, and wand alternatives are all subjects he notes for further interest. Hagrid helps him count out the money, and Hari really wishes he could figure out this system soon.

He yawns once they get outside the store, exhausted even after his nap. Hagrid smiles, frowns, attempts to play charades with his hands, and then just shows Hari into the Leaky Cauldron and buys him a burger.   
It’s quite literally the biggest thing hari has eaten in his life. He struggles through a quarter of the greasy meat and melted cheese before wrapping it up as leftovers.    
He hides it next to his sock full of money. For some reason, the Dursleys never check his pockets. 

The trip back is a lot less awkward then the last, and Hari happily holds Hagrid’s yarn in his lap while fiddling with his brand.

He can’t wait to see Aditya.


	5. The Calm, Now the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> So this one is definitely not as long as the previous, but it is about the same length as the other three so there is some consistency there.  
> As long as you read the tags there should be no need for warning, but make sure you do just in case.  
> Anyway, I'm writing chapter eight now so I'll get back to you later.
> 
> See ya!  
> CL

Going back is as painful as he imagined.

Uncle Vernon’s nose is swollen and purple, almost an exact match of the color of his face when he realizes Hari came back.  He makes sure Hari’s own nose matches his, then his eyes, then his back, and then his arse.

Hari sobs in his cupboard quietly for a while before passing out.

The next morning, he’s forced to make breakfast, which is difficult when his eyes are almost swollen shut and you can’t hear a thing. The bacon grease splashes on his hands and he tries to wipe it off on his shirt, which just means it burns through his shirt and onto a bruise on his stomach. But it also means his hands don’t feel like they’re on fire anymore, which means he can flip the bacon.

Sitting down hurts, but standing hurts more, and he’ll take any relief he can get from his aching feet, even if it means his bottom throbs. Luckily no tears fall on the laundry.

His things are still shrunk in his pocket, his trunk and his books and his robes. He had asked Hagrid to take care of the owl at the school, claiming he didn’t have a space made up for her. Which was true, but also because he didn’t want her to be hurt.

Inithia had refused to leave him, instead staying either in his cupboard or around his shoulders when he claimed the bruises didn’t ache under her weight. When he falls asleep, she hisses about his monster relatives and how much she wished she was venomous.

He’s glad he had asked Ollivander about the protections on his brand, because the first thing his aunt had tried to do was take anything magical she could find and burn it. She did find his ticket and his leftover hamburger, but he’d already memorized the ticket, and the hamburger wasn’t the biggest loss. His pager had almost been found, but she stayed away from the shelves at the very top where the spiders were. He should have hidden his ticket up there.

She had tried to tear his bracelet off, but her fear of touching him helped in that aspect. His uncle had no qualms whatsoever.

His wrist is raw and bloodied at the end of it, and his brand is covered in reddish brown blood, but he has it and it’s still there. He grins and fingers the charm in his cot at the end of the day.

He figures out how to shrink and unshrink his books after a week, and he immediately starts on the textbooks. He’d rather get ahead of studying than research, no matter how much the books interest him.  
In his History of Magic textbook is where he finds the perfect name for his snowy owl. Hedwig, which loosely translates to warrior. He thinks she’ll appreciate the sentiment.  
When the Dursleys go out for a movie on August 31st and drop him off at Mrs. Figg’s, he asks her if they can go to the library.  
“Of course Hari, let me just grab my cane.”  
That’s the thing about Mrs. Figg. She may smell like cats and boiled cabbage, but she loved reading as much as he did.

It’s a nice 25 degrees, and the breeze feels wonderful through his thin long sleeve. He sees a girl in her hijab and long sleeves and pants like him, though hers are neater and definitely thicker. He hopes she isn’t too hot. He waves and she waves back, bracelets jingling. Mrs. Figg smiles and holds his hand as he laughs.  
Inithia is around his waist, doing her best to not aggravate the black and blue bruises spotting his ribs.  
Mrs. Figg heads to the mystery section, trusting him to come back in an hour. Hari heads straight towards Aditya who already has a cup of tea in their hand.  
It’s their break luckily enough, and they lead him to the break room like always. They watch the way Hari winces as he sits and they sigh.  
“What have they done this time,” they sign before turning to find the first aid kit. Since Hari had become a regular, it had gotten evermore extensive.

Hari shakes his head and hunches into the chair. Inithia squirms and before he can tell her to stay hidden, she peeks her head out.  
Aditya turns back with a mug of tea and the close to bursting first aid kit to sea a pale snake head poke out of the neck of Hari’s oversized shirt.  
The shattering of ceramic makes Hari flinch.  
He watches Aditya, looking up through the fringe of his hair. He pushes it out of the way when it falls too much into his view.  
Aditya’s lips quirk, but they’re still staring at Inithia as if she will attack them.  
“You have a snake on you,” they sign.  
Hari gulps and nods.  
“Are they friendly?”  
Hari nods, the force of it making him dizzy. He swallows down nausea, knowing the only thing he would be throwing up was bile.  
Aditya rushes forward to put a hand to his forehead. “No temp. When was the last time you ate?”  
Hari shrugs, because does that really matter right now? He just wants a book and some tea and to tell Aditya about him being a wizard.  
His face lights up all of a sudden. He almost jumps in his seat, Inithia squirming around him and hissing about proper conduct. He ignores her.  
“Aditya! I’m a wizard!”  
They turn from the mini fridge to sign, “obviously,” before taking a tupperware to the microwave.  
Hari frowns. “You knew?”  
Aditya smiles and shrugs. “Pretty much.”  
Hari grins because this is even more exciting. They probably knew about the transfiguration theory he had been struggling with.  
He pulls out the right book from his pocket, just like where he keeps the rest of his things. He grows it from the size of his thumbnail to its actual size.  
Aditya jumps.  
Hari ignores them and flips through the pages. “So there’s this one theory that I had trouble with that hopefully you can help me with.”

Hari looks up to find Aditya clutching the counter and their heart.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” they sign. “Just, magic. Okay.”

Hari frowns and shrugs. “Yep.”

They nod and sit down. Inithia pokes her head back out of his shirt and Aditya flinches.

“The snake is your pet?”

He nods. “Inithia, leader of song and dance. She’s funny.”

Aditya shakes their head, smile stretched. “Of course she is.”

“You don’t like her.” Hari frowns and pulls back into his chair, ignoring the ache of his bruises.

“No, no! I just-it was a surprise. What if I walked in here with a pet monkey, how would you react?”

Hari imagines Aditya with a monkey on their shoulders, playing with their earrings. Hari giggles. “It’d be funny.”

Aditya grins. “Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?”

They ruffle his hair and stand up, frowning at the length of his curls. They grab a broom and mop and start cleaning up the spilled tea they’d both forgotten about.

“Now let me see that book.”  
The theory flys over Aditya’s head as well as it did Hari’s, but they have fun looking through all his other books. Inithia slithers off to get closer to the microwave or as she describes it “the source of the wonderous heat.” Hari shows off his brand, tells them about their new (or old, depending on how you look at it) name that he now goes by, and the little lion head charm on his bracelet. He tells them that Inithia is the only thing he can hear, and they ponder it a moment before Aditya remembers that hearing loss can be measured by decibels, so it’s reasonable to assume that Inithia’s voice is just at a lower decibel than anything else.  
Then Hari gets to the topic he’s been dreading to bring up. Aditya  is still digging through his textbooks, eyes blown wide and a furrow in their brow, just like every time they concentrate. Hari slowly brings his tea up to his lips, not even bothering to take a sip.  
“Aditya?” they turn to him instantly, closing the book they were studying. Hari is going to miss this. “The school I would go to, it’s for people like me who can do magic.”  
He’d read about it in one of the books he bought, Hogwarts A History, which is still in his pocket. He hadn’t wanted Aditya to find out before he told him.  
“They have a secret train platform, how silly is that? I have to get their September First, not sure how I’m going to do that. But,”Hari swallows the emotion in his throat. “I wouldn’t be back until next June.”  
He stares at his lap, face blank.

This is the first time he’ll be out of Surrey, out of the Dursleys house, out of whatever horrible school Aunt Petunia had decided to enroll him. And it’s like he’s escaping early.  
But it’s also like he’s running away from his own little patchwork family.  
Not even from just Aditya, but their mother, who makes him food and sends him well wishes. From Mrs. Figg with too many cats. From the head librarian who let him shelve books, and the rest of the library staff that would stop by with caramels and a joke.

Aditya puts a hand on his shoulder and he looks up. They have the same tears in their eyes as Hari does, but they smile. Hari tries to match it.  
“It’s okay,” they sign, slow but sure. “I’ll still be here.”  
Hari does smile now, wide but fragile. They stay like that for a while, before Aditya groans and signs something about Hari’s hair. Hari laughs and the moment i broken before it can get awkward.  
“We really do have to do something about it, it looks like a birds’ nest.”  
Hari frowns and fingers his curls. “I like it longer though.”  
Aditya winces and gathers up their coat. “There’s long and then there’s just plain messy. Come on, I think my hairdresser can fix it up.”  
Hari shrugs and stands up. They gather Mrs. Figg who is all for Hari getting a haircut.  
The Dursleys aren’t due back for another two hours because they’re grabbing dinner and heading to the arcade after the movie.

Aditya drives them to their hairdresser, a small little salon next to a thai restaurant and laundromat. Mrs. Figg glances at them but Aditya shakes their head and says something that Hari doesn’t catch but makes Mrs. Figg relax.

Aditya flings open the salon door and calls for someone. Hari sees a many a rolled eye and stays behind his friend. Aditya winks at him while a lady the same age as Aditya comes forward.

“Must you do that everytime?”

Hari watches her carefully to see what she’s saying and also to watch for any signs of annoyance. Aditya just smiles and says something back. He doesn’t sign, and Hari can’t tell if he’s grateful or not.

The woman is suddenly looking at him, and he flinches back, hiding behind Aditya. She frowns, glances at them, before kneeling down to look Hari in the eye.

“Hey, my name’s Amelia. And you are?”

He takes a deep breath. “Hari.”

She nods and smiles. “Hi, Hari. Is this your first time getting a haircut?”

He shakes his head. “My aunt usually cuts my hair.”

She cringes and looks back at Mrs. Figg. “Is this your aunt?”

“No, she’s my babysitter.”

Amelia waves at Mrs. Figg behind him before turning around and walking towards one of the black chairs. She turns around and pauses when she realizes he didn’t follow.

Hari glances between the adults and debates running through the glass door they just came through.

Aditya pulls Amelia aside and whispers something into her ear and she gasps and puts hand over her mouth. When she looks at him, the pity is almost tangible.

The door is looking like a better and better option.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Aditya says something else to her before signing to Hari.

“Can you jump in the chair?”

He nods and climbs in the chair, gingerly sitting down.

Inithia had opted to stay in the car where it was warmer, and Hari misses her weight.

Amelia starts chattering to Aditya about what she’s going to do about Hari’s hair, and Aditya translates. It’s annoying, but it works.  
Every brush of her hands makes him tense, but he tries to stay as still as he can. He knows Aditya is safe, but this girl is new and energetic.

When she comes after him with scissors, he starts signing, hands almost blurring.

“Are you sure this is safe? I don’t really need a haircut. Really, we can just leave. Please?”

Aditya spins him around so his back is to the mirror and pulls up a chair to sit in front of him. “It’s fine. Take a deep breath. We’re just going to cut your hair. She’s not going to hurt you. Just breathe.”

He follows their breaths with his own, trying to ignore the hitch whenever he inhales. Amelia is saying something to Aditya, but their entire focus is on Hari.

“Just my hair?”

“Yes. Do you mind if she washes it first?”

He remembers Aunt Petunia forcing his head under frigid water, remembers the water running up his nose and into his lungs and burning.

“Can-Can we not?”

Aditya huffs and runs a hand through their own hair. Amelia lights up with an idea and turns to Aditya. They grin and sign to Hari. “What if she cut my hair first?”

Hari eyes her for a second. Looks at Aditya, who is smiling hopefully. He nods, short and quick, and Aditya’s grin widens.

“Perfect. Amelia, do your thing.”  
She grins and takes them over to one of the wash basins in the back. Hari watches as Aditya’s hair is shampooed, conditioned, and then cut before being artfully styled with what looks a lot of spray and hot air. Aditya grins when it’s done and turns to Amelia with their own dramatic flair saying and signing that is perfect, thank you.  
And then it’s Hari’s turn. He keeps his face carefully clear of the water, but Amelia just washes his hair before escorting him to the black chair in front of the mirror.  
They turn it around again, Aditya sitting in front of him telling him stories in sign language, most of them borrowed from books they’d read. Hari laughs but his body is tense and it takes everything to stay still when the cold metal gets too close to his neck.

At last the scissors are gone, and then it’s on to liberal use of the hair dryer, but the spray used on Aditya stays firmly on the counter.  
When he’s turned back around, Hari can barely recognize himself.  
He can actually see his cheekbones, and his hair is soft to the touch. The out of control frizziness is gone, and now it’s just a pile of soft curls on his head, flowing forward to cover the majority of his scar. The sides are shorter, and he rubs a finger over the short hair there.  
And sure he’d like long hair one day, but he can’t grow it out within minutes, and this looks pretty awesome.  
“I like it.” Aditya grins behind him, and Amelia pumps a fist in the air.

Yeah, it’s still pretty untameable, but all he has to do is push it forward a little bit and it’s presentable.

It’s great.

In the car, Inithia takes one looks at him and hisses, “That’s better.”He smiles and rubs a finger over her scales, and Mrs. Figg and Aditya just roll their eyes. Hari can’t stop rubbing a hand through his hair and checking it in the mirror every once in a while. It’s so soft!

Aditya drops them off at Mrs. Figg’s house and they spend the rest of the time looking through Mrs. Figg’s photos of her cats. Inithia makes a game of chasing some of the lazing cats, who usually just swat at her. Hari gets juice, is allowed to read his books (even though he makes sure they aren’t the magic ones. He’s not sure how mrs. Figg will react), and plays with his hair.  When Inithia gets bored with her game she slithers to the Dursleys’ house and hunts in the garden.

The Dursley come home in a great mood, until they see Hari.

“Freak!” his aunt said. At least she was consistent. “What did you do to your hair?”

Mrs. Figg places a hand on his shoulder and holds a discussion with his aunt, who responds with pursed lips and words that snap.

His uncle, however, just places a hand on her elbow and smiles.

He says something to his wife, but Hari can’t focus. His stomach drops to the floor and it feels like the juice he just drank is trying to force itself up his throat.

He can’t breathe.

Uncle Vernon comes forward and grabs Hari’s arm, thanking Mrs. Figg for watching the negro, he’s all sorts of trouble, and thank you for making him look presentable.

His uncle’s grip may look friendly, but through the shirt, Hari can already feel the bruise forming.

Mrs. Figg’s smiling is stretched and thin, but she looks dazed for some reason, and just waves as he’s brought into his relatives’ house.

He ignores the way the tears and betrayal sting.

His Uncle throws him in the cupboard as soon as he can, that blasted smile still plastered on his face. Hari huddles in the corner of his cot, holding his blanket close to his chest. It’s threadbare and stained, but it’s protection.

But not enough. His uncle still comes and drags him out of his cupboard, lays him down on the kitchen floor. He still takes his belt and whips, takes his fists and hits. He still takes Hari shirt and rips, still takes Hari himself and rips. Hari’s blood still stains the sparkling tile in a mess he’ll be forced to clean up tomorrow.

And back in his cupboard he rubs his head where his uncle had gripped his hair and pulled, had forced him to scream or else he’d do it again. Where his uncle had patted his head after, crooning  how good a negro he was, like he had since he started.

Sometimes losing his hearing is worth not being able to hear that.

There’s one moment burned into his mind, when his uncle had moved in front of him to pick up his forgotten belt, tucking himself into his trousers. He turned to Hari and for just a second, Hari was able to read the lips that had stained him perfectly.

“Always a good little whore.”

He hates it.

He hates all of it!

His skin, his relatives, this place, himself-

But he can’t bring himself to hate magic.

He bites the meat of his hand, his sobs silenced to whimpers.

Coppery liquid fills his mouth and he just bites down harder because this scar is nothing to what he’ll earn if his relatives hear him.

When he’s able to breathe without hiccuping, Hari brings his hand down to look at the cut.

It’s deep, will definitely scar. He takes one of Dudley’s old shirts, tears off the sleeve, and wraps it around his hand. It’s shoddy work, won’t protect it from infection, and even now he sees the faded blue cotton turn brown.

It’ll do.

He swallows a whimper when a lance of light shines through the slats in his cupboard door.

Morning. It’s morning.

He glances down. It’ll be hours until his relatives wake up. His things are packed, have been since he’s gotten back. The map and bus schedule he’d printed out that afternoon is in a shrunken book. His brand is on, and everything else is quickly gathered in his blanket and tied up into a bundle.

He’s read about an unlocking charm in one of his books, a simple one. All he has to do is get it right.

He focuses, thinks of the magic like it came to him in Ollivander’s shop, thinks of his desperation to get out, to escape, to flee.

His hands twist and the lock clicks.

He freezes, watching the ceiling for the tell-tale thumps of footsteps. Nothing moves and he lets himself smile.

When his aunt goes downstairs the next morning, it’s to a bloody hand print on the door and an empty cupboard.


	6. Two Types of Cross

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> So I'm back, because the idea of waiting a week to read something is agonizing and I would never want to do that to you, so apparently we're doing daily, maybe bi-daily updates. Woohoo. Did not mean to start doing that.  
> But here you go! Chapter six. I just finished up chapter eight, starting chapter nine, you know the drill. Have any questions, shoot me a comment. I read them all, even if I don't respond.
> 
> See ya!  
> CL

He picks up Inithia from the front garden, where she’s dozing in the weak early morning sun. He wraps her around his shoulders, which is better than anything else he can offer, and then they’re off.

He can’t run, but he sets a brisk walking pace that makes his thighs ache and body throb. But he pushes through, belongings clutched close to his chest.

He ducks into an alleyway at one point to check the map and the clock he can see through the shop window. It’s six thirty now, and he has to make the the 7:30 bus to Kings Cross. The station is about two kilometers away at this point. He just has to continue on this street for a while, take a left, and then he’s there.

Easy Peasy.

Except every step feels like he’s pushing hot splinters into his leg and he doesn’t remember it getting hurt, but that doesn’t mean much. His hand aches in an odd way, and the cloth tied around it is sticky now. He can barely move his fingers without feeling sick.

But it’s just walking. He can make it these couple meters. That’s all there is.  
Inithia offers to slither beside him to give him a break, but he doesn’t want her to get stepped on in the crowd that’s starting to form. He doesn’t mention the fact that without her weight he feels bare.  
So they keep going. He checks the map frequently, making sure he doesn’t screw up and end up on a bus back to the Dursleys.

But no, he makes it. His feet ache and everything throbs and sitting hurts as much as standing, but he gratefully relaxes on one of the benches. He checks the bus schedule for the number of the bus he should be watching for, and then carefully studies each one that passes.  
A bus pulls up exactly as the watch the person sitting next to Hari on the bench strikes 7:30. He makes sure Inithia is hidden under his clothes, checks the number, and then hurries up the steps. He hands the driver a pound in a half before rushing to the back of the bus.  
It’s two hours until his stop, but he can’t afford to read or else he’ll miss it. He watches the traffic outside his window, the stiff plastic chair making his aches throb.  
He’s counting the amount of red cars that pass when he notices something that looks awfully like a train station. He picks his head up from where it was leaning against the window and looks at the next destination sign.  
King’s Cross. He’s here.  
His foot starts to bounce, hurts, and he forces it still. But he can’t stifle his smile, even when it makes the bruises on his face pull. He waits for the big rush of people to leave the bus before heading up to the front of the bus. He gives the bus driver an awkward smile, and the woman gives him a tired smile back while drinking her coffee.  
Was coffee good cold?

He doesn’t have time to ponder when the crowd jostles him every which way. He feels himself being pushed and pulled, all amounts of cuts and bruises aggravated. He’s just glad he doesn’t lose his makeshift bandage.

Which is getting crusty at this point. He pouts at it, but there’s nothing he can do now.

Inithia shifts on his shoulders to get away from the crowd, and he pushes through as best as he can. He has an hour and a half. He can do this.

He ends up in the station almost by accident, but he’s here. It’s crowded, more so than the street outside, and he swallows down the nausea when someone brushes against his hand. Inithia tries to calm him down with hissed words, but he can’t focus and there are so many people and he can’t breathe.

He finds a bench to stumble on to, and the pain from sitting down helps clear his head.

It’s just people. Strangers. Like the people at the library. Just people. They don’t care. He mutters it to himself, not being able to hear, but the words are all that matter. He keeps his eyes on his shredded trainers, one hand on Inithia and the other on his bundle of belongings.

So when a hand lands on his shoulder, he jumps.

His head flies up and green eyes meet brown.

It’s a girl, with bright red hair and freckles plastered all over her face. He shrinks back into the bench and Inithia pokes her head out of his shirt to hiss a warning.

Which doesn’t actually do much.

“You have a snake?”

He nods because yeah, there is a snake around his shoulders. He can’t really lie about that.

“That’s so cool. Is it a boy? You know, at my house, we have a bunch of snakes in the woods, but my mum says I’m not allowed back there, which is silly because she doesn’t care if my brothers go. I wish-”

She cuts off when he runs a hand through his hair, exposing his scar for half a second. He’s glad she’s not speaking because her words were a pain to follow, but when her eyes widen, he wishes she would just go away.

Which luckily enough she does. She turns towards a yell he can only imagine, sends him one last awed look, and runs back into the crowd.

Hari lets himself take a shaky breath before standing up. He can’t hold off any longer.

He picks up everything of his, his little blanket bundle, and dives into the crowd.

 

The signs, at least, are easy enough to follow.

He’s next to platform one right now, so in theory he goes straight down the station to find two, three, and so forth.

Which he does. He also finds four five and six. But for some reason there are no fractional platforms.

He doesn’t let it bother him until he finds platforms nine and ten.  
And no nine and three quarters.  
This is fine. Perfectly fine. He just needs to take a deep breath, ignore the fog of doubt in his head, and figure it out. It’s like a puzzle. He can do this.  
He watches the crowd first. There are the normal working people, dressed in business suits and pencil skirts, and then there the ones travelling for fun, in bright colored dresses and jeans. There’s one family with the palest blonde Hari he’s ever seen, except for that one boy in the robe shop-  
Well what are the chances?  
It’s the same, Draco, with silver eyes that don’t reflect light, but shine with their own.  
He’s standing next to two people with the same hair and in wizarding robes that Hari doesn’t remember seeing in Madam Malkin’s. But they do look fancy, almost sparkly.  
He walks around the family, trying to get a view of their lips and an insight into their conversation. He keeps himself a couple of meters away, trying not to draw attention to himself.  
It fails, obviously, because the man looks up, and then the woman, and then Draco follows their gaze to Hari. He shouts something over the crowd, probably hello from Hari what can see, before his mum quiets him with a soft hand on his shoulder. He rolls his eyes, just like his mother does behind him, and Hari tries not to laugh.  
Draco waves him over, trying to keep his movements cool and casual like his parents are. Hari giggles into his hand that’s not covered in blood and goes forward.  
“Hello again,” Draco says when he gets over there. “How are you?”  
Hari shrugs because really, he’s in so much pain, but he’s also about to go to magic school. It could be a lot worse. “You?”  
What follows is a tirade of words, worse than the girl that he met before. Hari can barely catch the words coming out of Draco’s mouth, but he does think he saw the word broom and first years, which he guesses is something.  
Draco pauses to take a breath before gaining a puzzled look on his face. “You never did say-”  
His mother interrupts from behind him, a hand again on his shoulder. Hari looks up at the lips stained a pale pink that say, “It’s time for us to get on the platform, Draco. And then after you might introduce us to your friend?”  
Hari’s too distracted to notice the red that spreads over Draco’s cheeks and instead looks up again to the woman. “You know how to get on the platform?”  
She shares a confusing glance with her husband, based on the rings on their fingers, before turning back to Hari and nodding. “Do you need help?”  
He hesitates before nodding. She takes it in stride and asks, “Where are all your things?”  
He holds up his bundle, careful to keep his cut hand out of the picture. There’s a fair amount of worry in her eyes, so he explains that most of his stuff is still shrunken down and in his pockets. The look she gives his overlarge clothes could burn down houses.

He avoids her gaze, instead turning to the man at her side. He’s the spitting image of Draco, same blond hair and silver eyes. But looking back at Draco, he has more of his mother’s nose.

The woman shows them to the wall between platforms nine and ten, and asks her husband to demonstrate.

“He’s just going to lean against the wall and go back into platform nine and three quarters. Draco, you’re up first.”

Draco follows his father through the seemingly solid brick wall, while Hari takes a second to realize how weird his life has just gotten. The woman, with her pale blue eyes that looks like the ocean he’s only ever seen in pictures, carefully takes his hand and leads him through to the platform.  
The magic rushes to him, heavy and warm. But it’s too warm, to much, like he’s burning. He takes a scalding breath and-  
Then they’re through. The only thing left from the overbearing heat is a slow drip from his nose. He raises his bandaged hand to it and looks to find blood on his fingertips.

Again?

He lets his hand fall when the woman turns to him, and he can see Draco and his father walk up behind her. She takes out a wand and the smell of flowers permits the air while she casts the same spell Ollivander had in his shop.

“Has this happened before,” she asks.

He shrugs, glances around for an escape. Draco pops up beside him with a grin.

Hari looks behind him to catch the eyes of his father, who’s scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes.

“We never did catch your name,” he says, and Hari’s almost sure he caught him dropping his gaze to his lips, but he doesn’t show it.

He hesitates. He doesn’t want the same wide eyed stare the girl had given him, doesn’t want the handshakes and meetings in the Leaky Cauldron, but he can’t keep his scar hidden forever. Better to rip the bandage off.

“It’s Hari. Hari Potdar.”

The man, in his favor, barely reacts. Neither does his wife, who’s come to stand by his side. The same could not be said for Draco.  
“What! You didn’t tell me that!”  
Hari flinches back, Draco’s sharp face set in a frown. “I’m sorry.”  
Draco huffs and crosses his arms, turning so Hari can only see his profile. He speaks, Hari can see his lips moving, but he doesn’t know what he’s saying.  
He just nods, and the man's eyes cut to him before he starts signing.  
“He said, ‘Sorry is the word of peasants.’”  
Hari can’t help it, he laughs. Inithia peaks her head out of his shirt to see what all the ruckus is about, and why her lovely perch is shaking like a leaf. Hari’s laughing too hard to respond.  
Hari looks up to Draco. “You sound like a rich old-age philosopher.”  
He sees Draco huff again, but the anger that was in his eyes has faded. Now there is only curiosity, glancing between his father’s hans and Hari. He lifts his own hands and signs, “Is this better?”  
“Loads.”  
Draco pouts for a second. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“Which part?”  
“Both! You’re the boy-who-lived, and you’re deaf?”  
Hari hunches into himself, and Inithia raises her head to stare into Draco’s eyes. The family suddenly notice the lavender ball python wrapped around his shoulders, but besides widening eyes, Draco is the only one to respond.  
“And you have a snake!”  
Draco’s eyes flit to behind him but before Hari can turn, a hand lands on his shoulder. It doesn’t fall on Inithia, but it does fall on a bruise. He only lets himself a sharp intake of breath before carefully pulling himself away from the hand which is only a few shades darker than his own.

The boy is the taller than Draco, who’s taller than Hari. He has a sparkling piercing in one ear and a close shaved head that serves to make his smile the biggest thing on his face. Hari shrinks back. Draco dominates the conversation with a waved hand, and Hari quickly shifts his focus.  
“May I introduce you,” he declares, “to Mr. Hari Potdar.”  
The boy looks towards Hari, eyes narrowed. Hari watches him as he leans closer. “You’re shorter than what I was expecting.”  
Hari feels his cheeks heat and glances for a way out. Before he can make his escape a slim dark hand lands on the boy’s shoulder, providing the perfect distraction for the rest of the group. As they look up at the newcomer, Hari slips away, towards the scarlet train that is letting out billows of steam.

He sees the girl from earlier pulling on the hand of a woman with the same shade of red hair. There’s a whole gaggle of gingers, actually, four boys surrounding their mother and sister. He can’t imagine every belonging to a family that big.  
He boards the train quickly, holding his blanket bundle tightly to his chest and shifting to make Inithia comfortable. There’s a soft layer of magic present on the train that feels like a whisper of warmth against his skin and he lets it wash over him.  
He passes compartment after compartment of people, and a clock on the wall says it’s 10:48. In the back of the train is an empty compartment, and he rushes in before locking the door. He falls gracelessly onto one of the plush seats, ignoring the pain it invokes.

Initha slithers off of him and explores the compartment, Hari watching lazily. She sniffs at one of the panels underneath the seat. “There’s a door here.”

He peaks over the edge and yeah, he can see the almost invisible handle on the pale wood. He grips it and pulls sideways to find a plethora of fluffy blankets.

When he pulls one out, it’s as big as the one that he washes from Dudley’s bed. It’s soft to the touch, and all of the blankets are different colors-s red, blue, green, yellow, and black.

He lets the exhaustion of the morning wash over him. His escape, his three and a half hour trip, and the crowds at the station. He wraps the blanket around him.  
The green material swamps him, but he loves it. He cuddles into it, Inithia slipping under to be closer to his body warmth. His eyes fall closed and the last thing he remember is the movement of the train swaying him to sleep.

 

He wakes up to his cupboard.

And no, this is wrong. He had escaped, had unlocked the door, had been free. He tries to open the door, tries to unlock it with his magic, but when he raises his hands his brand is gone.

He scrambles for it, fumbling in the weak light for the wooden bracelet.

His searching had woken up his uncle, and he can feel the heavy thumps of his footsteps on the stairs above him. No, this can’t happen again, can’t be real, must be dreaming-

He wakes up to Inithia’s hisses in his ear, and lets that calm his beating heart. His breaths deepen before he actually hears what Inithia is saying.

“People at the door. Smell like flame and smoke. Very loud.”

He looks up over the blanket to see the door is rattling in the frame, but the lock seems to hold. He hides back in the corner, the blanket still wrapped around him and his belongings in his arm. The door rattles harder before it suddenly stops. He feels a small wave of magic and the scent of a burning fireplace wafts through the compartment. The door slides open to reveal three gingers, one with his wand out.

They stand awkwardly, obviously not expecting a small boy swamped in fluffy emerald fabric to be shaking in the corner.

Two of them are identical, but the other is almost the same height as them. They all have the same cheekbones, blue eyes, and again, red hair.

So brothers.

One of the twins breaks the stillness and starts speaking.

“Hi little firstie.”

He pauses, waiting for something, but Hari continues studying his lips for the next part of the conversation.

“-and I’m Forge. To who-”

Did he miss the first part of the sentence? He’s not that shaken, and he was concentrating! He feels his cheeks flame when they all look at him and tears prick his eyes and he just want them to go away!

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

The other boy pushes forward with an exasperated expression that looks like it’s been practiced a million times before. “Lay off him, will you? I’m Ron, these two are the twins, Fred and George.”

One of them mutters in a stage whisper to the other behind his hand. Hari desperately watches for the others reactions, is he supposed to laugh? But the twins just nod seriously as if they’ve just settled the price of their trade, and Ron rolls his eyes.

Hari drags his blanket closer.

Ron shoves the twins out the door, and all of them are gangly limbs with too many freckles. Ron huffs when the door closes and he turns to Hari.  
“Where’d you get a blanket like that?”  
Hari hugs it closer to his chest. He’s not giving this up, it’s the warmest he’s been in a while.  
But Ron’s question was just where. So he swallows whatever is sticking in his throat and answers, “Under the seat, it’s a sliding panel.”  
Ron kneels down and slides it open to the four massive blankets left. He pulls out the scarlet and Hari is just close enough to make out the whispered “wicked” on his lips.  
Hari plasters a shaky grin on his face. Ron sits across from him on the other seat, the blanket wrapped around him like a cape. He smiles at Hari before looking out the window and studying the landscape.

Hari would go back to sleep if he could but even with this stranger suddenly sitting across from him, he’s still shaken from the nightmare. He keeps his hands firmly in his lap to keep the tremors hidden.

Inithia squirms in his lap, peeking her head out from underneath the blanket. She sniffs the air before hissing to Hari, “I smell rat.”

Hari pets her head and whispers back. “No hunting. You ate at the Dursleys.”

He can hear the sneer in her voice when she says, “Just crickets made weak from poison. Not a juicy mouse.”

Hari catches movement from the corner of his eye. He looks up to see Ron waving at him. “What’s that your hissing at, mate?” Inithia pops her head up from where the folds of the blanket had hidden her and Ron jumps. “Bloody hell, is that a snake?”

Hari nods and strokes Inithia’s scales. “This is Inithia. She’s harmless, but she smelled a rat and wanted to go hunting.”  
Ron places a hand on an odd shaped lump in his pocket and lets his eyes narrow at Inithia. “She won’t eat Scabbers, will she?”  
“No, she’s already eaten.”  
He nods before his narrowed eyes turn to Hari. “Did you talk to her?”  
Hari shrugs, still petting Inithia. “Isn’t that a thing a lot of wizards can do?”  
Ron shakes his head, eyes wide. “You’re a parselmouth! What’d you say your name was?”  
A what? Parselmouth? Judging from the boy’s reaction, probably something bad. Of course he’d be a freak here too. “It’s Hari.”  
He doesn’t even need to say his last name for the boy to look at his fringe. Hari ignores the stare and pulls out a book from his pocket, unshrinking it. He immerses himself into the complicated history of wand lore. He didn’t know trees and geography could be so interesting. Ron across from him keeps shooting glances, and when Hari finally concedes and brushes his hair back, mostly to get the hair out of his eyes, his eyes go as wide as his sisters.

Ron shys away from talking now, glancing between the scar on Hari’s forehead and the snake on his lap. Hari just reads.

When the door slams open, making the walls shake, Hari looks up to find Draco glaring, the dark skinned boy behind him.

“You can’t just run away like that! I couldn’t find you!”

Hari glances at the door the two boys are crowding and he can feel the tremors running through his hands.  
“I’m sorry,” he signs back, because no, he doesn’t trust his voice to not break. “I just wanted to get a good seat on the train.”

Draco huffs before looking at the other in the cabin. Ron and Draco glare at each other, the heat behind it betraying history. They trade words and before long they're wrapped in their own little argument.

The other boy pushes past Draco and plops down next to Hari. He shoots him a lazy grin as he stretches. “Draco had me walking up and down the entire train looking for you, you know. I’m Blaise.”

He holds up a ring adorned hand for Hari to shake. Hari clasps it gently, careful not to touch any of the jewels. Blaise frowns but shrugs it off.

“I’m Hari.”

Blaise’s grin turns sharp. “I know.”

Hari shrinks back even further.

He turns back to Draco and Ron, just in time for Draco to sign and say, “Why are you consorting with a Weasley?”

Hari frowns. A weasley? A weasel? What? “A what?”

Draco points to Ron, expression haughty. “His entire family are blood traitors. And they can’t even afford proper fitting clothes!”

Hari glances at Ron’s red cheeks and short robes, obviously meant for someone smaller. He looks back down at his own frayed cuffs that envelope his hands in faded fabric.

He looks up again. “Until last month, neither could I.”

Draco flounders for a moment before Blaise gets up and slaps him on the back. He mutters something to Draco which makes the boy huff-again-and sit down. He takes Blaise’s seat, forcing Blaise to sit next to Ron, who crosses his arms and faces Hari again.  

“What was that thing he was doing with his hands?”

Before Hari can even calm his frantic heart, Draco rolls his eyes. “Honestly. It’s sign language.”

Ron grimaces at being addressed by Draco, but asks. “Why would you need a language you can see?”

Blaise rolls his eyes next to him. “Well if you can’t hear…”

“You can’t hear?” Ron turns to scrutinize him.

“Not him, you clot.” Draco gestures to Hari. “He can’t.”

“What? But he’s the boy-who-lived!”

Draco crossed his arms before realizing he needed them to sign.  “Yes, and he can’t hear. So that’s why I,” he puts a pale hand on his chest, “out of the goodness of my heart, am being considerate and communicating in a way he can understand without fierce concentration.”

“And because you want to talk to the mermaids.”

Draco scowls, cheeks tinting pink  while Ron laughs.

“What has that got to do with mermaids?”

Blaise explains in a drawl like the one Draco had used in Madam Malkins. He’s facing the compartment door though, so Hari can’t understand what he’s saying.

He turns back to his book.

He’s just about finished with it, only a couple pages left. The end is just a summary of the work though, so he skims through it for new ideas before shrinking it and putting it away. He pulls out another, this one a herbology book mentioned as a reference in the actual textbook they use. He flips to the beginning and settles in to read when Draco catches his attention.

“Careful,” he signs. “Too many books and you’ll end up a Ravenclaw.”

The sign for ravenclaw is, confusingly enough, the sign for eagle followed by the sign house. Which considering their mascot is an eagle isn’t that backwards, but if that’s the case, why is raven even in the name?

But Hari remembers reading about the houses in Hogwarts a History and Ravenclaw didn’t sound half bad. None of them did, actually. So Hari just shrugs and sticks his nose in his book.

He finds out that their are wizards and witches in Nepal growing gravity resistant trees, which are used often to make racing brooms and levitating tea trays, though those aren’t as popular because everyone wants silver. There’s also a greenhouse in the colonies that has breeded different species of plants to create a plant that according to modern labelling terms, should be an animal. But it’s a plant.

So that’s interesting.

He’s engrossed in the report of color changing flowers and the difference between their muggle counterparts which only change color due to external factors as opposed to internal, when the door opens again, letting in a blast of cold air.

The entire compartment looks up at the girl with frizzy curls pulled back into a careless bun. Behind her hair a small boy can be seen sniffling and rubbing his eyes.

“Have any of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.” She gestures to the boy behind her who gives them a small wave.

Draco glances at her shoes and gives Blaise a meaningful look. Hari frowns and looks at them himself. They’re normal mary-janes, a little worn but obviously well cared for.

The girl is still waiting for an answer, and really, this is getting awkward. He pokes Inithia in the side to wake her up. She opens one pale eye and he whispers, “Do you smell a toad?”

He looks up sharply at the movement throughout the compartment. Neville and Ron have paled ever so slightly while the rest seem to have lit up. The girl in particular.

“You can talk to snakes?” And that’s all he can catch before she’s off, ranting at a mile per minute. He glances at the other in the cabin, but most of them are staring at her horror, or in Blaise’s case, nodding along.

When she pauses, looking at him with an expectant look on her face, he feels tears prick his eyes. He holds them back with all he can and reports what Inithia had just said.

“She says to look where all the sweets are. I’m sorry I can’t help more than that.” But Neville suddenly gains a smile and runs of with a hurried thank you.

The girls sighs once she’s deprived of a companion and comes in to plop down next to Blaise. Blaise, for his part, just scoots over so she can fit on the bench without being forced in the corner. “Now answer my question.”

Everyone turns to him waiting for an answer to a question he doesn’t know. Sweat breaks out on his brow and he rubs his hands on the blanket in his lap. “What was it again?”

The girl rolls her eyes but beside him Draco’s own eyes widen. “She said, ‘When did you first talk to a snake?’”

The girl’s eyes cut to Draco’s hands before looking back at Hari with an apology in her eyes. He looks away before answering.

“I’d talk to the snakes in the garden, but they’d never talk back. They’d just sit and watch from where they were sunning. The first time a snake talked back to me was this summer when we went to the zoo for Dudley’s birthday. I accidentally helped it escaped and it said thanks.”

Everyone is staring at him again, but it’s not from a missed question. Blaise’s grin is back amused this time, and Draco is smirking. Ron and the girl look horrified.

“You let it loose? But that’s dangerous!”

His cheeks heat and he looks down at the blanket in his lap. “It was an accident.”

He turns back to his book, but his hands are shaking and the book won’t stay still.

It had been dangerous, hadn’t it? Sure the snake hadn’t been venomous, but it was a constrictor. It could have killed someone!

Hari had almost killed someone. His breath catches in his throat and he debates hiding under the blanket. But these people are here and they can’t see how freakish he is. They can’t.

Tears fall on the book laying open in his lap and why is he crying? He wipes them away, forgetting about his bandaged hand. When he brings his hand down, he can see the blood has fully saturated the cloth.

His breath quickens and he feels his stomach churn. He bolts up, Inithia falling and landing on to the blanket covering the bench.

“I have to-have to-” He takes a deep breath before forcing out “Bathroom” and running out the door.

No one follows.


	7. New Friends and an Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Let me just say, I love and enjoy all the comments that you guys post. Thank you so much for doing it.  
> And look at me just tempting fate. Right after I say "Daily or bi-daily updates," I end up almost pulling a tri-daily. Is that even a word?  
> Anyway, the chapter I was writing came smoothly enough, but it was just a matter of amount of time I had. Soon enough though, I'll be heading to Tennessee with my laptop and a bunch of free time.   
> Enjoy this chapter! It's one of my favorites, not really, I love them all equally, but we do get to meet Regulus. So much fun to write let me tell you.  
> Anyway, See ya!  
> CL

He clutches his stomach as he runs, trying to keep the nausea at bay. His hand is jostled with every step and he tries to press it closer to his body in vain.

There are small signs scattered throughout the train, and the closest bathroom is at the end of the car. He whips around the corner, not bothering to lock the door.

He makes it to the toilet and the only thing that comes up is bile.

His throat burns now, and when he faces the mirror he can’t even tell who he’s looking at.

His hair is damp with sweat and yellow bile is stuck to the corners of his mouth. His cheeks are a mess of tears and blood from where he’d tried to wipe them off.

They come back again.

He was such a freak. Why does he do this? He tries to be normal but he talks to snakes and he can’t hear and he almost kills people!

His nails dig into his arm while tears fall from his eyes.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps, head hitting the wall. A sob escapes his throat and he can feel it wrack his chest. He presses his head to his hands and just wish it would all stop.

The hand is still there, slowly rubbing his back. It’s just hard enough to aggravate all his cuts and bruises and he can feel weak scabs being pulled away.

He’s suddenly spun around to face the person helping him, or people, but he might be seeing double. Or quadruple.

It’s still blurry but he can see a shock of ginger and black robes. Ron?

He raises his hand to rub at his eye to find his glasses are missing. He kneels back to the ground, searching with his hands for the frames and hoping that the lenses haven’t cracked.

He feels the shock of cold metal on his hand and snatches them up. With them back on his face, he turns back to what had looked like splashes of orange.

Now he can tell it’s the twins who had dropped Ron off at the compartment. There’s worry etched on their faces, and Hari wonders what for.

He’s still too dizzy to read their lips, but he can tell they’re moving. He leans forward, as if that could help him.

The boy closest to him glances at his forehead and then his brother and Hari follows his gaze. He can pick out some of their freckles now.

He sways again, letting his body go where ever it feels like. He closes his eyes and falls back against the wall.

They’re shaking him now, and Hari has no more tears left. He tries to pull himself away from the hands but all he can do is scoot further along the wall, his shirt pulling against his cuts.

It feels oddly warm.

He turns to look where he’s been and there’s a faint trail of red on the wall. Nothing horrible, just means new scabs need to form.

He looks back at the twins to see them freaking out. They try to say something to him at the same time but he can’t focus on both. He focuses on the one closer to him.

“Can you hear me? One finger for yes, two for no.”

Hari holds up two fingers because no, he can’t hear him. What a funny thing to ask.

The twins--and Hari thinks Ron had called them Fred and George--share another heavy glance before whichever one is closer to him speaks again. “Are you hurt?”

The one behind him slaps him on the head and Hari flinches back. The twins automatically back up, placing their hands where Hari can see them. Hari studies them from where he’s on the ground.

“What George means here,” The one in the back says,“Is can we help you?”

Hari shakes his head because unless they can stop him from being a freak, then no. There’s nothing else.

“Are you sure?” It’s George this time. “We can get you something if you’d like. Some water? I think we have the odd medical potion in our trunks,too.”

He’d read about the effects of medical potions. Basically completely safe if taken in the right dosage. And brewed correctly.

He hesitates. What if it’s the wrong thing, or expired, or it’s a trick and it’s actually a swelling solution that will make his throat and stomach grow until they explode-

He shakes and then clutches his head when the movement makes him dizzy. He needs to stop doing that!

Fred sighs and rubs a hand through his hair while George lets his chin fall forward to touch his chest. They turn to each other, glancing at Hari while they mutter to each other.  
Hari glances at the door behind them.

One of the twins, Hari’s lost track of which is which, plops down in front of him and pulls out a bag of marbles. “Do you know how to play gobstones?”

Hari shakes his head, bringing his hands up to his chest. The ginger just grins and launches into an explanation that would probably make sense to hari if could understand.

But the twins do an example for him, showing him how to flick the marble into the string circle to hit one of the other marbles out. They glance at him to see if he understands, and he does, really, but he keeps back in the corner. The twins shrug and continue playing.

When one of them misses a marble, he’s shot with a foul smelling slime. Hari laughs with the other twin as he wipes off the green slime and flicks it at his brother. The other shrieks and Hari laughs harder.

They both smile at him and Hari offers a nervous smile back.

They finish the game quickly, both getting slimed once more before all the marbles--or gobstones he assumes--are out of the string ring. They both count until the one on the right raises his hands and shouts in victory.

Hari can see his face when he celebrates and can read the twin’s, “Take that Fred!” to his brother.

So that was George.

They start to set up again, and Fred casually pulls out a third set of gobstones from his pocket. He sets it directly in front of Hari’s line of sight and turns back to placing marbles with his brother.

It’s not subtle at all, but Hari slowly picks himself up and walk over to where they’re making funny picture with the marbles in the string. He sets himself down gently, careful not to put too much weight on his hand in case he falls. The twins don’t look at him until he clears his throat.

“Can I play?”

They nod and grin, showing him how to place his gobstones and how to hold his big marble so he can flick it into the circle.

They play a couple games, the twins trading victories. Hari is covered in the most slime at the end of it, but George tells him the smell will fade in five minutes, so it should be fine. His cheeks ache from the grin stretched across his face.

The twins both look up at one point, to watch seemingly nothing. Hari follows their gaze but all he can see is the ceiling. When he looks back down, the twins are staring at him.

“You need to get changed,” Fred says, and Hari has spent long enough watching the both of them out of the corner of his eye to tell that there’s an odd little freckle shape on his nose, almost like a star. George, in contrast, has a faint heart.

George gets up and and holds out a hand for Hari to take. When hari takes it, George pulls gently until he’s standing. Behind him, Fred’s jaw drops.

“You’re so short!”

Hari blushes and wraps his arms around himself, stares back down at his sneakers. He looks up through the fringe in his eyes to see George chastising Fred, a finger pointing at his chest.

Hari giggles at the scene, remembering the entire ginger family on the platform, the mother with her finger in one of the twins chests.

Fred rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics, but he does shoot Hari an apologetic look. Hari’s cheeks heat again and he looks away.

The window draws his attention, and he suddenly realizes how dark it’s gotten. He looks down at his ratty clothes and yeah, his uniform sounds like a good idea right now.

He takes out his trunk from his pocket and unshrinks it. Luckily the bathroom is ginormous and he can actually open it.

It’s dusty, hasn’t been opened in a month, and the instruction booklet is in one of his other books, so he’ll have to look for that later. But his robes are right on top and he pulls them out.

The twins leave him be while he gets dressed, but when he steps out they hand him a damp paper towel and a glass of water. He hesitates before he takes them, but he hasn’t had water in hours, and walking out with throw up on his face is probably not a good way to start the school year.

Fred and George wait for him to shrink his trunk before taking his hand and leading him back to the compartment he had run away from, and Hari wants to dig his heels in, but they probably just want to check in on their brother.

So he follows, because he probably needs to apologize and he misses Inithia’s weight on his shoulders.

When George slams open the compartment door, no one is moving.

Ron and the frizzy haired girl are sitting on one side, and Draco and Blaise and a new girl sit on the other. None of them are looking at each other, and Hari can feel the tension in the air.

He doesn’t like it.

No one can see him but he shrinks back. Fred hasn’t let go of his hand. He glances at him, worry laced brown eyes locking with his own. Hari looks away first.

The blanket in the corner squirms before a pale purple body shoots out of it and across the floor.

“Hari!”

He kneels down so Inithia can slither up his arm. Both the twins take a step back before shrugging and turning back to the compartment. They start to speak to Ron while Hari hisses to Inithia.

“I’m sorry for running away like that.”

She nips at his hand. “That is not what you should be sorry for.” She doesn’t say anything more, but takes her usual spot on his shoulders.

He puzzles over her words before shrugging and running a hand over her smooth head. She pushes into his hand and does what he has learned is the snake equivalent of purring. He smiles.

A glint of blond hair catches his eye and he turns to face Draco who is signing furiously.

“Running away like that! We thought you were going to come back so we waited for three hours for you!”

Before Hari can shrink back, George gets between him and Draco. Hari can’t tell what he’s saying, but whatever it is makes the angry flush of Draco’s cheeks disappear. Draco turns back to him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right.” Hari addresses all of them. “I’m sorry for running away like that. I got scared and didn’t take a moment to consider the effects my actions would have on others.”

The twins glance at each other before opening their mouths. “Actually…”

Fred picks up where George left off, and Draco signs for Hari. “You were sick, so running to the bathroom was probably the best option for everyone.”

They shrug when everyone turns to stare at them before they turn to Hari.

His dark skin can’t hide his blush. “I’m fine, it was nothing.”

He can see Fred snort and George’s elbow of retaliation. The small argument that breaks out after is halted when the train starts slowing down.

It’s chaos after that, people gathering pets and stray belongings that had somehow spread over the cabin.

Hari edges around to grab his blanket bundle and he hesitates before snatching up the fluffy blanket he’d been wrapped in before. He clears a space on the bench before unshrinking his trunk and shoving both in. It goes back in his pocket the size of a matchbox.

He’d placed the rest of the things that had still been in his pocket in his trunk when he changed, but he does remember dropping a book. He finds it in between the cushion and the wall and decides to carry it.

Inithia stays on his shoulders, tasting the air as they leave the compartment. Ron and Draco lead the group, sniping at each other while Blaise rolls his eyes behind him with the girl Hari hadn’t met. The frizzy haired girl tags along muttering to herself.

He doesn’t see the twins until they both place a hand on his shoulder and gently spin him around.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were deaf?”

There’s genuine hurt in their eyes and this reminds him of the time with Hagrid when does he learn he messes everything up-

One of the twins--George--takes his hand and prys it open, studying the crescent moon imprints left on his palm. Hari’s just glad he didn’t do the same thing to the other.

George waits until he’s looking up before saying, “It’s okay, but you don’t need to hide it. Especially not to friends.”

Hari freezes at the word. Friends? He thinks of Aditya with their yellow dress and smiling eyes and laughter that he can only hear in memories. It makes his heart ache.

Fred is behind George, smiling while keeping everyone else away. Hari glances between the two of them before he offers his own smile.

They grin and pull him along, out of the train and into the dark. Hari stumbles off the steps but they catch him before he can fall on his face. They drag him over to a hulking shape with a lantern the size of a pumpkin in his hands. Hari beams and shouts, “Hagrid!”

The giant man turns to face them, waving. Even through his beard, Hari can tell he’s smiling.

He puts down the lantern for a second, and double checks that he has Hari’s attention before his hands start waving.

Hari kind of wants to cry.

His grin is starting to hurt his cheeks as Hagrid signs “First years, over here!” He turns back to Fred and George from where they’d fallen behind to find them smirking at him.

“Already the staffs pet, are you?”

Hari frowns and tries to find a frayed edge to fidget with. He settles for his lion charm, not wanting to mess up his new uniform.

He feels a hand on his head messing up his hair and he looks up to see Fred ruffling his hair.

“We’ll make a junior marauder out of you yet.”

They nudge him towards Hagrid and he gives them one last wave before running over to where the giant man is corralling students down a dirt path.

He catches up to the group, studying the ground to keep his feet under him.

Despite his best efforts he stumbles over a rock right into someone.

It’s a girl, the girl, who had been sitting next to Blaise when he’d come back to the compartment.

She rolls her eyes when he tries to apologize and just grabs his arm to make sure he doesn’t fall again.

He spends the rest of the walk confused and tense.

The ground beneath them shifts from dirt to loose gravel and the crowd suddenly stops. Hari looks up then and sees the most magnificent sight of his life.

The castle is straight out of a fairytale, with towers and turrets completely made of stone. Every window is lit with soft golden light and even from here he can feel the warmth. The light of the quarter moon shines off the lake, casting everything in a soft silver glow.

Hagrid is in front of the group, waving towards a line of boats. He puts his lantern down again to sign the message for Hari’s benefit and Hari grins.

“No more than four to a boat! Hurry up then!”

The girl pulls Hari over to a boat and he can see Blaise walking casually behind them. He smirks when Hari catches his eye and raises one eyebrow. Hari huffs and lets himself be sat down next to the girl.

She turns to face him full on. “I’m Pansy. Hari Potdar?”

He nods. “Nice to meet you.”

Her smile isn’t sharp like Blaise’s was, but it has the same type of edge. “Likewise.”

The boats start moving then, and as the lantern gets further away the chance of Hari understanding anyone is zero.

He leans over the edge of the boat, studying the moonlit water underneath them. For one terrifying moment he thinks he sees an orange tentacle squirming in the water, but he pushes it away as an abundance of nerves. Either way, he stays firmly inside the boat after.

They land on pea gravel, a mirror of the other shore. Hari is careful to keep his ratty sneakers out of the freezing water before following the rest of his year mates.

The walk to the stone steps involves a lot of stumbling in the grass and pressing against warm bodies. In the end, Hari ends up tense and separated from Pansy and Blaise. He searches for a familiar face before heading to the back of the group, hoping to stay out of the center of the crowd.

Inithia hisses in his ear, calming him. She had taken shelter from the cold under his robes and he strokes her scales before the sudden stillness of the crowd catches his attention.

In the doorway is a stern witch dressed in emerald tartan robes glaring at a select few in the crowd. When she glances at him and her face pales, he shrinks back.

She gathers herself and begins to speak, but from this distance Hari can’t read a thing. But he does follow the rest when they move forward.

He’s the last one to walk through the doors, and the familiar warmth of magic envelops him. It’s less aggressive than the platform barrier, but no less powerful.

He feels his nose begin to drip and a headache form. Tears prick his eyes and he tries to hide the blood dripping onto his lip.

It doesn’t do much because the stern witch turns back to see him clutching his nose and rushes forward, taking her wand out of her sleeve. When she gets closer he can smell fresh rain before she points her wand at him and he experiences the now familiar feeling of his nose healing instantly.

She’s scolding him now, he’s not sure what for. She speaks like the girl on the train did, a million words per minute, and the little things he catches don’t make any sense.

Draco pushes forward from the crowd, planting himself between the witch and Hari. He starts signing what he says. “He can’t understand you, professor.”

She glances at the boys pale blonde hair and then his hands. She turns towards Hari who is still nursing a horrible headache before turning back to Draco.  

Her words slow to a normal pace and he can read her when she says, “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Now please head back to your year mates while I help Mr. Potdar here.”

Draco frowns but waves to Hari as he walks away. Hari gives his own shy smile before he realizes everyone is staring at him. He turns back to the professor.

Her foot is tapping on the ground, obviously thinking. Her wand hits her palm and Hari shrinks back. But all she does is wave it through the air and conjure a small shining light that solidifies into a clockwork bird. She whispers a message he doesn’t catch and lets it fly into the air, disappearing through the cracked doorway on the other end of the hallway.

It’s an awkward two minutes waiting for whatever is supposed to happen. The professor walks back to the other students and gets them organized when a man comes through the same door the bird flew through. He walks straight up to the professor who explains before pointing to Hari who is still standing by the entrance. Hari flinches away when the man’s gaze cuts to him, head still pounding.

When he comes closer, Hari can make out short black hair and grey eyes that look strikingly similar to Draco’s own.

“Hello,” he signs. “My name is Professor Black. Can you tell me how you got that bloody nose?”

Hari’s eyes catch on the silver necklace the man wears before focusing on the question.

“I think it’s because of the magic.”

Professor Black’s eyebrows rise before he asks, “What do you mean?”

Hari struggles to find the words to explain with his head pounding. “It’s heavy and warm. It’s done it before, at Ollivander’s and when I walked through the barrier. The magic gets super strong there and the pressure causes my nose to bleed. But I’ll be fine, it will pass.”

He frowns before going to converse with the other professor, gesturing for Hari to follow.

Hari does, every step feeling like a nail in his skull. He raises a hand to his head and why does he feel so cold?

Inithia sniffs the air with her tongue before declaring, “Sick,” and diving back under his shirt.

He shakes his head. He can’t be sick! He’ll miss the sorting, or he’ll be forced to go back to the Dursleys-

The man holds out a vial of silver liquid and Hari carefully takes it out of his grasp. “This will help temporarily deaden the stress the magic pressure is applying to you. Once you’re sorted, you and your head of house will create a plan to get control of this problem. Please drink.”

Hari uncorks the phial while the man watches. The potion tastes like sour mint and freezes like ice. He grimaces and hands the bottle back to the professor, ignoring his chuckles.

Within seconds, his headache fades and the warmth of the magic is distant. He looks up to give the professor a smile who responds with one of his own.

“Now I believe,” the man signs, “you have a sorting to attend.”

Hari looks to find his yearmates are already walking ahead. He rushes forward, glancing back to give his thanks to the professor.

But the man is already gone.

Hari searches for dark grey robes and the flash of green trim, but all he sees is the moonlight playing over the smooth stones of the hall.

He turns to face the doors his peers have already left through. He takes a deep breath and heads forward to follow.


	8. A Hat and a House

He’d read about the grand hall in Hogwarts: A History, but it didn’t prepare him for this sight. 

He can’t even tell if there’s a ceiling! It looks like the endless night sky scattered with so many stars that it lights up the humongous room. Candles float through the air, some low enough to touch if he jumps and others so high he mistakes them for stars. 

The grand hall is three times the size of the Dursley’s house and fifteen times as magical. Him and the rest of the first years walk between two tables crowded with students, one with yellow ties and the other blue. If he gets up on his tiptoes, he can see a table on the far side of each, but he can’t tell the colors from here. He knows though, that one will be red and the other green.  

Ahead of him he can see the staff table, and can just barely make out the glint of gold plates and goblets. 

He clutches his book to his chest, reluctant to shrink it and take away whatever shield he has. Inithia flicks him on the cheek with her tail and he manages to smile despite his nerves. 

He goes back to staring at the ceiling, trying to make out the faint outline of arches and supports and picking out the constellations he read about in his textbook and books from the library. 

Someone taps his shoulder and he turns around to find Ron Weasley and the frizzy haired girl behind him, who’s looking up at the ceiling as the gold light reflects off her dark skin. Suddenly she looks forward along with Ron, and Hari faces the staff table to see the professor dressed in emerald bringing forward a three legged stool and an old worn hat. She sets it down in front of them and steps back, clasping her hands in front of her. 

Hari glances between her and the hat, waiting for whatever grand event is supposed to happen. He jumps when the hat begins to move.

But it just moves. There’s no light or spinning or any other grand event until the students and staff applaud and the professor pulls out a scroll of parchment. 

He has no idea what’s happening. Random first years push through the crowd just to put on the hat which moves on their head a little before they head to a table. 

This hadn’t been in Hogwarts: A History. The only thing that had been said was that they would be sorted, not how. He studies the people around him who look as pale as he’s feeling. 

The frizzy haired girl heads up to the front and places herself on the stool as the professor sets the hat on her head. It takes a second before the hat moves and the girl heads to a table as her tie turns red. He claps, because everyone else is too, and wishes he knew what was actually going on. 

Hari notices something as the sorting goes on. Some students sit under the hat for less than a second, while others can take a minute or more. Neville, the boy who had lost his toad, is called up, the hat waits for three minutes before moving. Neville jumps up and runs to a table, forgetting to take off the hat. He has to run back to hand it to the next person and when he turns back around, his tie is as red as his cheeks. 

Draco struts forward, and Hari catches sight of Professor Black rubbing his temple at the staff table. He blinks. When had he gotten there?

Hari looks back to Draco, who’s head barely touches the hat before it moves. His smirk is counteracted by the flush on his cheeks as his tie turns green and he walks to the far edge of the hall. 

Hari clutches his book. What if he’s not chosen? What if whatever makes the hat move doesn’t happen for him? What if they pluck it off his head and tell him he has to go back to the Dursleys?

Pansy is the next one he recognizes being sorted, and she crosses her ankles when she sits on the stool. There’s a fierce look of concentration as the hat sits on her head before it moves and she smiles. Her tie turns green and she heads over to where Draco sat down. 

There’s one more person before Ron taps him on the shoulder and points to the front. He looks at the professor who is scanning the crowd before realizing it’s for him.

He pushes forward, his book wrapped in his arms. Inithia is hidden under his robes and he can feel her weight settled on his shoulders. 

He hesitates before sitting down on the rickety stool that’s covered in scuff marks. He sees the hall craning from their seats to look at him before the professor places the hat on his head and it slips down to cover his eyes, knocking his glasses down.

“Hmm. Difficult. Very difficult.” 

Hari jumps and tries to figure out where the voice is coming from. It chuckles and he brings his arms closer to himself.

“Jumpy, are you? But plenty of courage, a good deal of determination. Would make you a good Gryffindor. But your plans, your dreams, those are Slytherin worthy.”

Anywhere, he tries to say back. Anywhere where I can get out of the Dursley’s. 

“Are you sure? You do have a great mind, and a passion for learning. You could do well in all houses.”

But I just want to be good enough to leave.

He can almost hear the smirk in what he assumes is the hat’s voice. “Well then, that’s simple enough. Good luck in Slytherin!”

Before the professor snatches the hat away, it whispers once more. “Far table on the left.”

Hari blink at the onslaught of sudden light and pushes his glasses up. Throughout the hall is the smattering of applause that is centered around the table that Draco and Pansy had sat down at. 

He looks down and sees his own tie has turned green. He smiles before heading over to sit down next to Draco. 

The sorting goes quickly after that, and now that Hari knows what is actually happening, it’s a lot easier to appreciate. He watches as strangers are placed on the stool until Ron is sitting down on the stool. It isn’t as quick as Draco’s sorting, but it’s faster than Pansy’s. The hat moves in what Hari now knows is it talking before his tie turns as red as his hair and he heads to the table on the opposite side of the hall.

He hopes they can still be friends. 

The last person is Blaise who walks up to the stool as casually as he approached the boat earlier, but Hari notices his shoulders are tense when the professor places the hat on his head. He relaxes when the hat moves and his tie turns as emerald as Hari’s. 

The professor gathers up the hat and stool and walks out a side door. Before she comes back, an old man sitting in the middle of the table stands up. He places his hands on the table and Hari can see Professor Black glaring at him from the end of the table. The man just smiles and addresses the crowd with words Hari can’t catch. He lifts his hands to the ceiling before sitting down behind a giant pot roast.

Hari blinks and looks back down to his own table. Before there were only the place sets, one for each student. Now though, the table is covered in food served on gold platters. Soups, chicken, and steamed vegetables are piled high around him, and further down Hari can see a roast and rolls. 

Hari glances at the others, who are digging in however politely. Pansy, Blaise, and Draco are the epitome of table manners, but across from him Hari can see a boy eating with his chin in his hand. 

Hari watches the others as he spoons himself some soup, ready for it to be slapped out of his hand. But no one even glances at him as he takes not one, but two scoops. He clutches his spoon in his hand as he waits for someone to say something before taking a small bite.

It’s delicious. Not something he’s ever tasted before, but he’s made it. Tomato and lentil soup, definitely more seasoned than the one the Dursley let him make. 

His toes curl in his oversized shoes and he holds in his desire to hum. 

Inithia pokes her head out of his sleeve and sniffs before hissing, “I would like some of the roast bird.”

He hesitates. Taking a small bit of soup is different than taking some chicken. But when no one glances at him, he carefully slices a small piece for Inithia. She snatches it up when he places it in his hand and retreats under his sleeve. He smiles and leaves her to doze. 

He’s barely able to eat half his soup, so when he’s done he places a napkin over his bowl like he sees Blaise has done with his unfinished vegetables. Blaise raises an eyebrow when he catches him looking and Hari’s cheeks heat before he glances away.

Straight to the staff table. On the opposite end of the hall was Hagrid, who waves to Hari when he catches him looking. Hari waves back, beaming.

He goes down the staff table, watching the ones who stand out. Next to Hagrid is the emerald clad professor, and three seats down is a short man about the same size as Hari. His chair is taller so he could see the top of the table, and he talks to a witch with curly hair tied into a low bun. They both are glancing at the middle tables, discussing the students.  

Further down, Hari studies the old man who had stood up. Assumedly the headmaster, with a beard down to his waist and white hair just as long. He watches as he talks with a woman with spiky silver hair and yellow eyes he could see from here.

On the end closest to Hari, Professor Black is talking to someone with a humongous turban. Hari squints at the professor before remembering the stuttering man he had met in the Leaky Cauldron.

Well that’s interesting. 

When the man turns around to face Professor Black, Hari feels a sharp pain in his scar and looks away, clutching his head. Draco catches his eye and signs, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a bit of a headache.”

Draco studies him for a second before turning to his bowl of strawberry ice cream.

Hari looks down to find his leftover soup had disappeared to be replaced with a clean plate and a spread of desserts. His stomach protests at the thought of more food, used to being empty for days at a time. He ignores the treats before him. 

He did try a sip of whatever was in his goblet. It was orange, and he could taste the smallest bit of cinnamon, but whatever it was made out of was a mystery to him. 

Pansy beside him tapped his shoulder, and he turned to see her pointing to his goblet.    
“It’s pumpkin juice.” She said. “A little rich, but better than prune.”

Hari shugs and takes another small sip before placing his cup back. 

Before long, the spread disappears and the headmaster stands up again. Hari waits, chin in hand, and notices the teachers smiles have become fixed. The headmaster waves his wand and a long ribbon floats above him, twisting into the lyrics of one of the oddest songs Hari has ever seen.

Students everywhere open their mouths, but none of it matches. Hari can see some of the people singing as quickly as they can, while others seem to be putting the words to an actual tune they know. Hari can faintly feel the vibrations through the table before the majority of the students are done. Hari looks across the hall to where the twins are standing on the bench. The headmaster conducts them through the last few bars before applauding. He says a couple more words before the students rush to stand up. 

Hari feels a hand on his arm, and he looks to see Panssy pulling him up. Once he stands, she drags him to a girl wearing badge etched with a P.

Hari can’t tell what she’s saying, but the girl glances at him with a grin and signs, “Hello, how are you doing?”

Hari glances at her and then the boy next to her who is shouting for some reason. “I’m fine.”

She nods. “Great. Just follow me and I can take you to the common room.” She turns back to face the rest of the students and Hari watches as the first years flock to her. The older kids leave with one of the other badge wearing students and the girl turns to face them. 

“Alright kids, my name is Gemma Farley. If you’ll follow me, we’re going to head to the common room and I’ll tell you the password when we get there.” She signs while she speaks, checking to make sure Hari catches everything. He smiles when she finishes and she nods. 

Gemma leads them through the doorway and down the hall, where all the other students had rushed out of. The first years fall in a line and Hari rushes to get in order. 

Draco in front of him shoots him an amused look. Hari just looks down at his worn sneakers. He glances at Draco in front of him and Pansy behind, dressed in shiny leather shoes. His stomach churns. 

The passageway is all stone spotted with the odd portrait. A picture of a snake catches his eye and he studies it before he realizes it’s moving!

He watches the other paintings closely, entranced with the moving oils and acrylics. If an abstract painting was made in this method, would the colors be able to move?

He puts it on his never ending questions to research that started when he was nine and handed The Hobbit and an unopened granola bar. 

Gemma stops them in front of an unusually blank stretch of wall. She starts to sign and speak. “The password is et smaragdus. Repeat after me.”

He tries to, he really does, but it feels awkward and rough rolling off his tongue. He mutters it to himself, trying to make the words smooth and oiled. 

The rest of his yearmates walk through the sudden archway while he tries to force the words he can’t even here. A hand lands on his arm and he jumps before he meets Gemma’s eyes.

“For you, Potdar,” she signs. “You’ll have to discuss with Professor Black.”

He holds in the shame and follows her through the archway to see the rest of the first years spread out in the common room. That’s the only thing he notices before the window on the far side of the room hypnotizes him.

He’s not sure window is the right word, because it doesn’t open up to open air. Instead he can see seaweed and silver and blue fish flitting through the window. The orange tentacle he spotted earlier waves through the window and Hari blinks and rubs his eyes before looking again.

It’s even closer now, the suckers stuck to the glass. Hari backs away and resolves to stay far away from the lake. 

Something moves suddenly, drawing his attention from the lazy actions of everything else in the scene. What he originally thought was part of the seaweed is actually scraggly hair. The owner swims forward and Hari’s jaw drops. A mermaid?

It has to be, the tail flashes silver just like the smaller fish. But unlike the ones in fairy tales, this mermaids has grey skin and glowing yellow eyes. When the mermaid smiles, it’s fangs glint like the polished pebbles it wears around its neck.

Surprisingly, it starts signing. 

“I am Warm Current. You are?”

Hari hesitates before responding. “Hari Potdar.”

Warm Current looks at him oddly before he realizes he spoke out loud. He tries it again, spelling out his name before using his sign name. They smile.

“Do I call you he or she?”

They shrug before saying, “I am considered female, and I am fine with the label.”

She goes on to talk about the problems with her house, and Hari never really considered the effects of erosion on underwater housing and how to fix it. Apparently they take bones from fish to make glue and then decorate with stones and pebbles every few years. It sounds tiring, but she describes the effect as magical, especially when the light from the underwater lanterns hits it in a certain way and it casts a kaleidoscope of colors on the colony. 

Hari might have to rethink his vow to stay away from the lake. 

He doesn’t realize the common room has cleared until he’s tapped on the shoulder. He flinched away from it before turning around to find Gemma, the other prefect, and Professor Black standing behind him. 

He brings his arms close to his chest. 

The professor dismisses the other two and they walk to doorways on opposite sides of the common room. Hari watches them from the corner of his eye, but keeps his focus on Professor Black. 

Who invites him to his office for tea. 

Hari blinks before his eyes narrow. But really, there’s no way out of it. If he refuses, the man will just take his anger out on Hari here in the common room. So Hari musters his courage and nods. 

The professor just smiles and escorts him to the carving of a snake that acts as a door. He strokes a finger down the snakes back and it opens to reveal the same hallway Hari had walked down less than half an hour ago. 

Hari lets him lead the way, watching him for any signs that he will turn around with his fist raised. 

But the man just keeps walking until they reach a tall oak door that he unlocks to reveal a neat office. 

There are pictures on the far wall, a few of people but most of scenery and objects. Hari notices a camera on one of the shelves lining the wall, and he can only assume the professor 

took them himself. 

Besides that, there are scrolls spread across the desk in tidy stacks. Quills and inkwells are lined up next to the piles of parchment, the quills all the same type of feather that Hari can’t place. The only sign of messiness is a dirty mug placed in the corner of the desk. 

Professor Black glares at it and brings out a wand that fills the room with the scent of fresh mint. He points it at the mug and whatever is left of the old coffee is suddenly gone. 

It’s odd, seeing a spell and not feeling the magic that comes out of it. He’s not sure he likes it. 

The professor sits down in one of the chairs on Hari’s side of the desk. He conjures a table and tea set before offering Hari his choice of tea leaves. Hari chooses a spicy blend that reminds him of his favorite from the library. 

As Professor Black makes the tea, Hari clasps his hands in his lap, trying to stop them from fidgeting. He sits on the edge of the chair, his feet still not touching the floor. He fights the urge to kick them. 

He looks toward the pictures on the wall. There are some of a street in what Hari recognizes as London, and others just of a forest and the lake. The ones featuring people are few and far between, but the eye is drawn to them immediately.

There is one of Draco, flying a broom above some rose bushes, his eyes hard and shining as he reaches out for a gold ball that’s flying in the air. 

Another features draco’s mother and father sitting at  table set for tea, with delicate china and finger sandwiches. The two are leaning closer to each other, oblivious to the person behind the camera. Their smiles are soft and their fingers are touching on top of the table. 

One picture is of a woman dressed in black and sitting stoically in front of a fireplace. Her posture is proud but when Hari focuses, he can see the grief in her eyes. He looks away.

The last picture is of a smiling women with a scarf that Hari recognizes as a hijab wrapped around her head. She’s reaching for the person behind the camera, the professor, and on her hand Hari can see the glint of rose gold that is a wedding ring. 

His eyes flick to Professor Black, who’s pouring tea for the both of them. On his left hand is a matching ring to the one the women is wearing in the picture, rose gold shaped to look like a braid, hers adorned with small shining diamonds. 

Once the professor sits down, he sets a cup in front of Hari and offers a bowl of sugar cubes. Hari carefully grabs the small silver tongs and plops three cubes into his drink. Professor Black raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as he takes one. 

Hari wraps two hands around his tea, letting the drink warm his hands as he takes a sip. Professor Black looks at his hands, his gaze hardening, before slowly setting his teacup down on the saucer. 

“What is that cloth on your hand?”

Hari scrambles to pull his hand behind his back, his tea splashing onto his robes. The hot liquid hits both his hands and tears spring to his eyes as he says, “It’s nothing.”

The professor just holds out a hand, waiting. Hari knows if he waits to long, it will hurt worse. He places his hand in his, careful not to jostle it to much. Professor Black pulls back the crusty cloth with a wrinkled nose, but his face goes blank when he sees the wound. 

“Did you do this to yourself?” The professor places his hand on the table, palm up.

Hari shakes his head. He couldn’t know he was a freak, couldn’t know how much he messed everything up.

“It was a dog.”

He just raises an eyebrow, waiting. Hari avoids his gaze, studies the pictures on the wall. 

The man sighs before getting up and walking to the cabinet on the far side of the room. Hari tenses while the man rummages through the shelves. Just because he wasn’t wearing a belt didn’t mean he didn’t have one. He drew his arm back and huddled in the corner of the chair.  

But he turns back and the only thing he has in his hands is another glass bottle, this time holding a blue liquid. He sits back down in his chair and holds out his hand again.

Hari’s gives him his hand, watches as he uncorks the bottle and pours it on his skin. It seems to melt into him, disappearing where it touches, and as he watches, the angry red of his cut fades into the normal brown of his skin tone. Hari looks up at the professor, but he’s still not done. He pulls out his wand, mint filling the room, and casts another spell that makes the muscles and skin of his hand knit back together. His stomach churns as he watches, but he wiggles his fingers without pain and it’s worth it.

He grins back up at the professor, who has his own smile, however dim it is. “Thank you.”

He just nods, takes a sip of tea. “Now the reason we needed to talk.” 

Hari watches him, brings his cup up to his lips. The professor seems content to wait for Hari’s reaction before standing to retrieve a book from one his shelves. He brings it back, places it on the table, and Hari can see the blue lettering on silver background. 

_ Mage Sense in all its Forms _

“This is a basic description of what you’ve been experiencing. Mage sense is the ability to sense magic, whether it’s in the form of ambient presence, or an actual spell is cast. Some report the ability to sense wands as well, especially in the form of smells.” He watches as Hari nods, small smile forming. 

“The problem is, this skill is one most wizards and witches take years to learn. It requires the ability to clear one's mind and force away all sensations to even get a glimpse of the power of magic. So a problem like yours is unique.”

Hari’s smile fades. Aunt Petunia had said unique was just another word for freak when one of his teachers had complimented him. If even his problems were freakish, would they send him back?

“We could set you up with potions, one in the morning and one in the evening, but the long term effects could be catastrophic. It’s a short-term solution, nothing more.”

Hari shakes his head. Even without the health risks, Hari wouldn’t choose that option. Seeing and performing magic without the warmth, settling over him like a blanket? It’d be like going without water. 

Which he’s used to, but this would be much worse. 

“I’ll need to do research before I can come up with a concrete plan. Would you mind waiting another day on the potion?”

Hair almost says no. Another day? With this deadened sense? Nosebleeds and headaches are something he can handle. He’d be fine. 

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to learn, wouldn’t be able to focus. He remembers going through classes with untreated broken bones, and barely being able to read a paragraph without wanting to pass out from the pain. 

He nods. 

The professor smiles, pushes the book towards him. “If you would like, you may borrow this book. Treat like a regular library book, and return it within two weeks.” He gets up to get the potions and Hari flips through the book, stopping at the table of contents. 

It seemed to be split into three parts. The first was what it was, it’s forms, who used it, it’s application. Then they had beginning practices and exercises, how to catch that first glimpse of magic. Finally the book focused on strengthening and controlling your magic sense. 

Hari vows to memorize the book so he would know it by heart. 

The tea tray shakes and Hari looks up to see Professor Black placing two potions down. “Take one right now before bed, and another when you wake up. Come to my office tomorrow at 8:00 after dinner, and we’ll discuss options. Now,” he hands Hari the potions, watching as he drinks one. “I’ll escort you to you dorm and then it’s lights out.”

That sounds like the best idea Hari’s heard all day. 

“One more thing Mr. Potdar.” The professors gaze drops to his sleeve and Hari draws his arm back. “What breed is your snake.”

Hari swallows. “A ball python, sir.”

He nods. “Very good. And they’ll be properly cared for?”

“I have-I have all the supplies, if that’s what you mean.”

A small smile spreads across the professors face. “Precisely. Let’s get you to bed.”

They walk back, Hari careful to memorize the route and stay behind the professor. Once they reach the entry, Professor Black turns back to Hari.

“All you have to do,” he signs, “is press the sign for s and then n to the door. It’ll open up for you.”

Hari does, and the archway appears. He beams at the professor, who gives him a smile. “Very good. Boys dormitory is on the left, follow me.”

It’s another hallway, lit with lanterns and spotted with doors. Profesor Black stops at the very first one. 

“This is for first years. Every year, you’ll get moved further down the hall one room. You share a room with two other boys, the other three are opposite this door. Right now everyone is asleep, so just head to the empty bed and get some rest.”

They wish each other good night and the professor turns away. Hari hesitates at the door. 

“Professor Black!”

The man turns, one eyebrow raised.

“I-thank you.”

He nods. “You’re welcome.”

Hari opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even tell you how sorry I am.
> 
> I just started chapter eleven, and I think it should be a quick fix, maybe, but I won't sacrifice length. I hope you all enjoyed Regulus in this chapter, he's so much fun to write. 
> 
> But again, I'm sorry waiting an entire month to update. I felt like crying. But it's here.
> 
> Gotta dash, have a flight in the morning.
> 
> See ya!


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